


Blood and Bones

by madandimpossible



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-06 13:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 45,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16833772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madandimpossible/pseuds/madandimpossible
Summary: The chronicles of the McAllister Family. Original characters of my creation and occasionally featuring the characters of my writing partners/





	1. Rosalind I

**Author's Note:**

> In an effort to save my writing of my original characters, that I had on my tumblr, I'm moving them to AO3 - just in case Tumblr closes down.

**nov 22 2004 ;** _bloodied knuckles ; whiskey breath_

Rosalind climbed through her window, the chill autumn air hitting her cheeks and flushing them with color. Matthew hovered by the porch, the slow glow of embers as he took the occasionally drag from his cigarette. She crouched, grabbing onto the drain pipe and easing herself down, using Matthew’s shoulder to steady herself as she landed on the damp grass.   
  
“You shouldn’t smoke so close to the house.” She chastised her brother, earning a grin from him.  
  
“All the windows are closed, big sis. You worry this much now, you’ll have white hair by the time you’re thirty.” He teased, tugging the string of her hooded sweatshirt and blowing smoke in her face.   
  
Rosalind coughed, shoving him away, and heading off into the cool night.

The twins met up with Matthew’s football buddies about a mile down the road, hugs and claps on the back where exchanged, along with a few loud ‘happy birthday’s.’ They climbed into Scott’s mom’s mini-van and drove to the party, passing around a flask filled with vodka. It burned her mouth and throat, but Matthew was unaffected.

Scott, who was driving, turned down the alcohol each time it was offered. “D’you wanna die before we even get there?” He joked, the lines around his eyes deepening as he smiled.

The house was a large colonial with a long driveway, trimmed hedges, and a fenced in pool at the back. It was too cold for swimming, but Matthew saw a few pretty girls hovering around it with cans of beer in their hand.

He and Rosie parted ways once they stepped into the house. Matthew made a direct line to the kitchen, where most of the booze would be, and smiled brightly at a blonde girl with pink streaks in her hair.

“I love that.” He said, pointing to her hair, and then taking a shot with his buddy, Derek. “Why’d you choose pink?” He yelled over the music and the combining din of conversations. 

“It’s my favorite color.” She laughed, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. 

“Do you wanna do a shot?” He offered her one of the plastic shot glasses. 

“Sure!”

Rosie turned down another glass of hard liquor, instead opting for a can of beer. It tasted gross, but it was better than vodka or harsh brandy. She sat on the couch with two other girls from her grade, indulging in a game of ‘who’s hot/who’s not’.

“Matt’s hot.”

“Ugh.” Rosie gagged, “That’s my brother.”

One of the girl’s face brightened, “Could you get me his number?”

Rosie took a slow, contemplative sip of her beer. “You could ask him yourself. He’s not stingy about giving it out.”

“What about Derek?” The second girl asked, the blue rubber bands of her braces contrasting against her pale face. 

“Ugh, Lindsay, don’t even start. He’s dating Monica.”

“Monica isn’t even here.” Lindsay scoffed, “If I was Derek’s girlfriend, I’d never leave his side.”

Rosalind quickly jumped in, “He’s cute, but he’s not _hot_.”

“I’d say at least fifty percent of the boy’s football team is hot. I think they do it on purpose so people come to the games.”

“You can’t even see them under the helmets, Casey.” 

“They take them off!”

Rosalind started to feel the pleasant buzz of alcohol swimming through her system. She was laughing more, even at stuff that wasn’t all that funny. She saw Scott looking at her and she waved, smiling.

Matthew had his tongue in her mouth, the girl with pink streaks in her hair was clinging to him desperately, grinding up against him as they laid on the couch in the half-finished basement.

“Do you have a condom?” She asked, yanking his shirt off and running her hands along his chest

“I’ll pull out.” Matthew said, shrugging, and kissing her again. Her breasts were heavy and full in his hands. Boobs were _so_ awesome. Their clothes piled on the floor next to the couch and Matthew sat up, letting pink-haired girl crawl into his lap. 

The basement door opened and she jumped in his arms, but he pinned her down with his hands on her hips, “YO! Occupied!” Matthew yelled, causing the girl to laugh and the door to suddenly slam.

“Come on, baby, we don’t have much time.” Matthew said, sucking on her neck and leaving a red hickey. 

Rosie learned a lot about Lindsay and Casey just from sitting beside them. Lindsay would have her braces off next year, had a crush on just about everyone, liked giraffes, and wanted to go to college for photography. Casey was dating Ben, but said she was going to break up with him after Thanksgiving, because he didn’t really ‘ _understand_ ’ her, and she wanted to date an older guy with more experience. Casey lived a few houses down the street - she had a dog named ‘Burrito’.

“I’m going to get another beer, you guys want anything?” Rosalind asked, but Lindsay and Casey both shook their heads, blonde and brunette.

“Nah, I still have this party juice.” Lindsay said, lifting the red solo cup. “It’s like vodka and a bunch of apple juice.”

“I have half a beer left.” Casey said, manicured nails tapping against the can.

“Okay.” Rosie shrugged, leaving her friends on the couch and stepping over a passed out guy with a dick drawn on his face.

Matthew pulled the shirt back over his head, his neck and chest covered in lipstick marks and hickies, his dark hair ruffled.

“You have an incredible pair of tits.” He said, standing to put on his jeans. Pink-haired girl was fastening her bra back on.

“That was a lot of fun…do you want to get together sometime?”

Matthew laughed, buckling his belt and grinning down at her, “Sure, sweetheart.”

That was a lie. He had no intentions of seeing or sleeping with her again.

“You enjoying the party?” Scott asked, leaning his side on the counter, his arm brushing against Rosie’s.

“Yeah - I am.” She cracked open the beer and let the foam run over her hand and drip into the sink. She wiped the back of her hand on her jeans.

“I actually have a birthday present for you…” Scott said, teeth flashing white, making her stomach quiver. Scott was tall, lean, his skin bronzed from playing sports, with warm dark chocolate eyes and jet black hair. 

“Uh huh.” 

“Come on.” He offered her his hand and Rosie took it.

Matthew got back upstairs and started looking for Rosie. Usually, he didn’t care what she did when they got to parties - because - Rosie could always look out for herself. _However_. The energy of the party had changed.

He couldn’t quite place it. He wasn’t drunk, but he had a sour feeling in his stomach.

“Hey, man - “ He grabbed the first shoulder he ran into, “Have you seen my sister? Tall, pretty, dark hair? No - not that one, idiot. _Rosalind_.” 

“Whoa - wait!” Rosie pushed her hands back up against Scott’s chest. This wasn’t the first time this has happened and it probably wouldn’t be the last. “Hey. Stop.” 

Scott had pulled Rosie into one of the bedrooms and sure, making out was OK, and she was happy to fool around. But, Scott was trying to unbutton her jeans. Rosie didn’t sleep around. She wanted to have sex for the first time with someone she really cared about and loved.

“S–Scott.” His hand was suddenly down her pants and she blushed, “I’m a virgin!” Rosie blurted out, that _usually_ stopped guys cold. 

Scott looked up at her, his weight pinning her down to the twin sized mattress. “That’s okay, Rosie, I’ll be gentle.”

He kissed her again, shoving his tongue into her mouth, and Rosie squirmed - trying to get away - but he misunderstood and pressed his weight onto her, grinding his hips into hers. Panic replaced embarrassment and then it quickly went ice cold. She heard Phillip’s voice in her head, stern, but encouraging; _‘Use your environment, Rosalind. If someone breaks into the house, ordinary people will waste time looking for something suitable- like a baseball bat or golf club, as long as you hit them hard enough - anything can be a weapon.’_

Her eyes opened and searched around Scott’s head. 

Rosie reached out, her fingers fumbling along the dresser, until she found the alarm clock - bulky and black - the red numbers reading: 3:36am.

She made sure her grip was tight and firm, using her free hand to hold Scott’s neck while he kissed her, ensuring he’d stay in place.

The corner of the alarm clock smashed against his head and Scott recoiled, howling. Rosie rolled away, her forehead clipping the corner of the night stand. Her vision went white for a second, hot pain cutting through her disorientation.

She heard the door open and Rosie stumbled towards it, “What the fuck?!” It was Matthew’s voice, but Rosie didn’t stay in the room.

She did what she was best at. She _ran_.

Rosie ran down the stairs, out the front door, into the cold dawn. She buttoned her jeans, goosebumps raising across her arms, since her hoodie was inside. The streetlamps illuminated her path as Rosie took off down the road. Her feet hitting pavement, her heart thumping, loud and hot in her chest. She was vaguely aware that her forehead was bleeding, her fingers wet and red from where she had cupped it.

Matthew was livid. He was an animal - teeth gnashing, fists swinging, profanity flying from his mouth. It didn’t matter that Scott _was_ his friend. Rosie was his sister.

He saw enough in those few seconds of Rosie leaving the room. He saw Scott’s pants unbuttoned and pulled halfway down to expose stripped boxers, the mar of blood down the boy’s face, Rosie’s face bright red and a clean line of fresh blood above her eyebrow.

It took two guy’s to hold Matthew’s arms back and a third to hold him by the waist. Everyone was yelling.

“She wanted it! Man! She fucking wanted it!”

“OH? So is that why she clocked you in the face?!” He didn’t even have time to enjoy the pun, his blood was boiling.

“FUCK YOU!”

“NO, FUCK YOU. DON’T YOU DARE COME NEAR HER.”

“SHE’S A FUCKING TEASE! A FUCKING SLUT TEASE.”

“THAT MAKES NO SENSE”

“GUYS, CHILL, COME ON!”

“YOUR SISTER WOULD HAVE LOVED IT!”

“YOU ASSHOLE! LET ME GO, I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL HIM.”

Phillip knew that Matthew and Rosie sneaked out. It was impossible not to know. They weren’t as stealthy as they thought. He stayed up, waiting for them to come home, or for a phone call that they needed a ride. He was only visiting for Thanksgiving and then he’d return down south for more training.

He heard the back door open and he stood, seeing Rosie, breathing heavily in the dim light of the kitchen.

Phillip pulled her into the bathroom and wet a washcloth, dabbing it against the cut on her forehead. It’s four am. She’s sixteen and he can barely recognize her.   
  
“What happened?” Phillip asked.  
  
“Don’t tell mom.” She’s thin, athletic, but not as strong as as she appears. She’s burying her emotions and her shoulders shake with the strain of it.   
  
“I swear, on my soul, that I will not tell anyone.” Phillip opened the medicine cabinet to find the band-aids and antibiotic ointment. She went to a party, she tells him, people were very rowdy and very drunk. A cute boy flirted with her. But then he got too aggressive.  
  
Phillip clenched his fist, “His name?”  
  
Rosalind shook her head. “I managed to get him off me, but I hit my forehead on the corner of the nightstand.”   
  
“That wasn’t my question, Rosie.”  
  
“If I tell you, you’ll kill him.”   
  
It’s not a question and the moment hangs heavy in the air of the tiny downstairs bathroom. Phillip is posed over his little sister as she sits on the toilet seat, the redness of her brow blossoming into a rose-colored bruise.   
  
“His name.” Phillip repeated and Rosalind tilted her head, with such a pained look that Phillip has to tear his eyes away.  
  
“He’s just a dumb boy.” Rosalind took the tube of ointment from his hands and lightly applies it, wincing, to the cut on her forehead. “Nothing worth going to jail over.”  
  
Phillip glanced at his little sister. She could never be more wrong.


	2. Phillip I

Phillip remembers the sweat trickling down his back and the salt burning his eyes. The weight of his gear and the shouts of his commanding officer. The rancid scent of drying seaweed and dying men. His black boots trudged through the wet sand into an alcove and he slicked his hair away from his face.   
  
In the dim light of the cave, he followed his fellow countrymen with his hand on the shoulder of the man in front of him. Funny how all the missions look so neat and clean when presented on paper. How neat and tidy they are when medals are pinned to chests. Valor. Bravery. Courage. Those words don’t mean a goddamn thing when the world goes to hell.  
  
The cave lit up as gunfire rained down. Pure adrenaline pumps through his heart as he finds cover and takes aim. The battlefield is narrowed down to the scope of a rifle. Us v.s Them. Enemy and ally. The ocean laps gently, serene and black, as the men crumble around him.   
  
Phillip can hear his commanding officer call for an extraction over the chaos. A laugh bubbles up in his throat. He’s twenty-five. He’s twenty-five goddamn years old and he’s going to die in a cave. This is not his first taste of combat, but it’s the first time he feels something new. It’s the cold breath of death ghosting across his neck. The skeletal hands reach out for him in the darkness and grab his ankle.  
  
Phillip stumbles back, wild, like a caged animal. He looks down at the pale face of Private Reynolds. His eyes are wide and he’s just staring at Phillip, his mouth slightly ajar, with blood streaming down his temple. His brain kicks back into gear. Death forgotten. Duty taking precedence. Phillip clamps his hand over the wound, searching blindly in the darkness for his medical bag. Reynolds gurgles something at him. He can’t hear him.  
  
The blood that gushes from the other man’s mouth is more black than red. Phillip, knowing by now what a doomed man looks like, stops searching for his supplies. Reynold’s face falls forward into the sand and his body tremors, the soul’s one last desperate attempt to cling to life.  
  
That’s the other thing they don’t tell you when they’re busy pinning medals on your chest. They don’t tell you about the bodies that follow you. Reynolds was nineteen. The scent of seaweed and death still clings to him. 


	3. Blackbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: a memory that your character cannot forget

**[Phillip]**

Rosalind is beautiful. That’s what everyone says. Every family gathering, every holiday, as she grows up from a swaddle of pink blankets and bows to a preteen with long legs and thick, jet black hair. His father jokes that he doesn’t know where she got it. Phillip tenses when he sees other boys look at her. He’s a hulking mass of anger and energy, already six foot, three inches when he’s seventeen. ‘She’s eleven, you fucking perverts’. He hisses at them, threatening to rip their precious parts off and feed them to the cattle. He remains a silent protector, scaring away anyone who might take advantage of his little sister, until he turns eighteen and joins the military. He passes the message along to his brothers. They promise to look after her.  
  
Rosalind is beautiful. That’s what everyone tells him. It’s been years since he’s seen her - but that’s the first thing out of everyone’s mouth. She’s so pretty, so smart, even for her young age! Phillip pulls her into the bathroom and wets a washcloth and dabs it against the cut on her cheek. It’s three am. She’s sixteen and he can barely recognize her.   
  
“What happened?” Phillip asks.  
  
“Don’t tell mom.” She’s thin, athletic, but not as strong as as she appears. She’s burying her emotions and her shoulders shake with the strain of it.   
  
“I swear, on my soul, that I will not tell anyone.” Phillip opens the medicine cabinet to find the band-aids and antibiotic ointment. She went to a party, she tells him, people were very rowdy and very drunk. A cute boy flirted with her. But then he got too aggressive.  
  
Phillip clenches his fist, “His name?”  
  
Rosalind shakes her head. “Matthew taught me a couple things, you know. I managed to get him off me, but I hit my cheek on the corner of the nightstand.”   
  
“That wasn’t my question, Rosie.”  
  
“If I tell you, you’ll kill him.”   
  
It’s not a question and the moment hangs heavy in the air of the tiny downstairs bathroom. Phillip is posed over his little sister as she sits on the toilet seat, the redness of her cheek blossoming into a rose-colored bruise.   
  
“His name.” Phillip repeats and Rosalind tilts her head, with such a pained look that Phillip has to tear his eyes away.  
  
“He’s just a dumb boy.” Rosalind takes the tube of ointment from his hands and lightly applies it, wincing, to the cut on her cheek. “Nothing worth going to jail over.”  
  
Phillip glances at his little sister. She could never be more wrong.

  
  
**[Matthew]**

Matthew liked high school. Girls smiled at him, he was the star of the football team, and none of his teachers ever gave him a hard time. He didn’t understand why his older brother, Wesley, had complained about it so much. Maybe if he wasn’t such a huge nerd, he’d have an easier time.  
  
It was Matthew’s job to keep control of the food chain. You had your nerds, your jocks, your goth kids, the foreign exchange students, and then you had the weirdos. The weirdos couldn’t fit into any category, they just floated from clique to clique. 

  
And that’s why they were here - in the holiest of places - the boy’s locker room. “I heard you were trying to get with my buddy James’ here girlfriend.” Matthew sneered, crossing his arms. The circle of his fellow football players had trapped the weirdo against the urinals.   
  
“I wasn’t!” the kid, Richard, said in a pathetic tone. “I just asked her if she had today’s algebra notes!”  
  
The boys snickered. “Listen, Rick, I’m afraid we’re gonna have to teach you a lesson about chatting up girls. You see, you made Rebecca feel uncomfortable…” Matthew shook his head, sadly, as if he had no control over the events at hand. “And we can’t just let that go.”  
  
“P-Please, I won’t talk to her again -I swear! She’s in my class! I didn’t know! I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to make her feel weird - I just - I was late yesterday and - no!”  
  
James, with little effort, grabbed Rick from under the armpits and held him steady while the boys took turns punching his ribs. The kid was skinny, just a bag of bones and limp, oily hair. James dropped him into a heap on the floor after the punching was done and then they took turns kicking him. Rick covered his head with his hands and curled into a ball.   
  
“Alright, boys.” Matthew raised his hand, “That’s enough. I think little Ricky here as learned his lesson. Don’t ever fucking talk to any of us again - got it? And if word gets out that you told someone what happened here today…” Matthew glanced around at the faces circling him, feeling a rush of power and control, “You won’t walk away with just a few bruises.” 


	4. Phillip II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heart of ashes

Golden light filters through the blinds and fractures across the dusty floor. 

“I’m on watch.” A gruff, male voice, “Get some rest.”   
  
Phillip’s shoulders barely relax, his gear weighing on him, but he slinks back into cover and clicks the safety back on his weapon. The salty-sour smell of sweat and dirt is ingrained into his skin. The fires from last night have (mostly) been put out. The cries of the wounded and the left behind, however, have not stopped. They scream and howl even in his sleep.  
  
They guard a city of ashes.  
  
II.  
  
He can still smell that room. Years into the future, and hundreds of miles away, he can still smell dust, and smoke, and blood and sweat. He can still feel the weight of Sgt. Rogers as Phillip dragged the remaining half of his body behind a pillar of stone. Rogers died sometime that evening while the bombs were still falling.   
  
III.  
  
Sometimes, he dreams of that room. He’ll wake up, sweating, on-alert, hand reaching for a weapon that’s not on his waist.  
  
VI.   
  
A platoon of wraiths follows Phillip. Young, old, mangled - they watch him with empty eyes and shocked expressions. Death lurks at every corner in wartime, but that doesn’t mean the dying don’t gasp in horror when it arrives.  
  
V.  
  
It takes him years of therapy to hear a firework during the holidays and _not_ duck for cover.   
  
VI.  
  
His therapist tells him it’s important to remember the moments of peace in his life. Phillip has two that he clings to - the birth of Ren, small, fragile, perfect, swaddled in warm cotton, and the evening he asked his wife to marry him. She had just arrived home from grocery shopping and she dropped the eggs when he went down on one knee.   
  
VII.   
  
“D-don’t leave me!” It’s a boy. No more than fresh over his eighteenth birthday. His green eyes remind Phillip of a brother back home. The soldiers’ stomach is thick and black with blood. His grip on Phillip’s arm is tight, pleading, and his eyes are panicked - a hare caught in a trap.   
  
“You-you-can’t leave me, please!” Phillip loads a magazine into his gun and grabs the young boy by the shoulders, propping him up behind a thick slab of what used to be a wall.   
  
“Stay low, keep quiet, and keep pressure on your gut.” Phillip says to him, aiming down the sights.  
  
The boy dies on the helicopter back to base.   
  
VIII.  
  
The flies crawl across the eyelids of the dead. His squad fans out, looking for survivors. Phillip stopped believing in God a long time ago.  
  
IX.  
  
“I get why Grandpa never talked about it.” Phillip says, running a dishcloth over a yellow plate, “The war.”  
  
Rosie looks up at him, her hands dripping with soapy water.  
  
“Talking makes it _real_ …reminds you that you lived it….that the people left behind are really gone.”  
  
“It also means you survived, Phillip.”  
  
He thinks of the eighteen year old boy. Still a child. His whole life ahead of him. He doesn’t ask the question aloud, but Rosie can see it on his face: _why me?_  
  
X.   
  
Phillip wakes in the early morning to the sounds of his daughter crying. Ambrosia is halfway out of bed, he places a hand on her shoulder - “I got it.”   
  
He scoops the small toddler into his arms and carries her around the house. He talks in a low, soothing voice, “Once upon a time…” He begins, “There were three little pigs….”   
  
Diane rests her head on her father’s broad shoulder. Her tiny hands curled into soft fists, her round cheeks ruddy from crying. Phillip inhales the scent of baby powder and the gentle shampoo they use on her hair. It chases away the smell of dust…of blood…of death. 


	5. Wesely I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the queen is the most powerful piece on the board ; phillip & wesley

It started one Christmas while Phillip was visiting from training. Wesley had been staring at his window and no surprise - he couldn’t sleep. He tried every trick in the book: counting sheep, tea, stretching and relaxing his muscles. 

When he went downstairs for a glass of water, he saw the living room lamp on, and figured it probably wasn’t shut off earlier. But, then he found Phillip, his hair short to his scalp, his hulking shoulders bent over their fathers’ chessboard.

“Hey, kid.” 

“We’re two years apart, asshole.”

Phillip rubbed his jaw and smiled - “In the mood to lose?” He asked, moving the pieces back in a line. 

It became a weird tradition after that.

* * *

If Phillip and Wesley were both staying at their parents, they would, inevitably end up playing chess during the deep darkness of the night.

“How do you feel about getting married?” Wesley asked, sliding his pawn into place.

“You’ve met her.” Phillip replied, calloused hands lacing together as he thought about his next move.

“Didn’t answer my question.” 

Blue eyes met green. They were the elder brothers - before the twins it had just been them. Wesley doesn’t have many memories of the four years before Matt and Rosie, but Phillip _does_. He moved his bishop. 

“You know the queen is the most powerful piece on the board.” Phillip said, lifting the black ivory piece and running his thumb across the edges of the crown. 

“Yeah, I’ve only been playing chess since I was sixteen.” Wesley rolled his eyes.

“I know.” Phillip smiled and set it back down, “I’m giving you relationship advice. A wife is the same as the queen. I’m…stronger with her….” He grimaced, “This chess metaphor isn’t working as well as I wanted.”

“I can tell.” Wesley took out of of Phillip’s pieces, frowning when he realized he’d have to sacrifice a pawn. “How’d you know? Like that you wanted to marry her?”

“It was easy. A life without her felt like a slow death.” Phillip took advantage of the opening Wesley had made. “Check.” 

They fell silent as Wesley tried to find a way to stall Phillip’s victory. But, the queen piece was in his way. He moved a knight for the sake of making a move.

“Shit.” Wesley muttered, “How many games have you won?” 

“As many as you’ve lost, I guess.”

“Smartass.” Wesley rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m going to make some tea.”

Phillip grinned, “Oh, you don’t want to watch your crushing defeat?”

“Just reset the board.” 


	6. Siblings I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes, the siblings get along

“Never have I ever been arrested.” Rosie says, lifting her glass and grinning.

“Fuck you.” Matthew sneers and takes a shot, reaching for the bottle and refilling the glass with a pointed look at his siblings.

It’s a rare day for them to all be in the same room. Even rarer that they’re getting along.

“Never have I ever been in love.” Matthew says, watching as the three siblings glare at him and each take their shot.

Wesley wipes his mouth, the harsh bathroom-cleaner taste of vodka heavy on his tongue.

“Never have I ever killed anyone.” All eyes swing to Phillip. He’s the only one who drinks.

Phillip rubs his jaw, so far he’s winning, but he wants to keep it that way. He doesn’t drink very often and he knows he’ll be carrying someone to the couch before the game ends.

“Never have I ever broken the law.”

“That’s a lie!” Matthew slams his palm on the table, “You’ve illegally downloaded music. Everyone has!”

Phillips eyes crinkle at the corners as he grins, “No, I haven’t.”

“You buy CDs?!” Rosie’s dark eyebrows lift and the vodka makes a soft ‘glug’ as she refills her shot glass, Wesley’s and Matthew’s.

“You clearly don’t. I’m surrounded by criminals.”

“Whatever. Rosie’s turn.”

“Never have I ever gotten pregnant.”

The three men burst out laughing - “Rosie, that’s an awful one. We all have dicks.” Matthews cheeks have gone red.

“Goddamnit. I didn’t think that through.”

“Drink! Drink!” There’s a loud chorus of booming voices and Rosalind rolls her eyes. She swallows her pride and the vodka.

******

“They should keep it down.” John grumbles, leaning over to turn off his bed side lamp.

“Leave them alone, John. They haven’t gotten along like this since…” Barbara pauses, dog-earring her poetry book. “Gosh, I can’t remember.”

John grumbles again and rolls over on his side.

“Put your ear plugs in, dear. I have a feeling they’ll be up for a while.”

John grunts but there’s a hint of a smile hidden in his beard.


	7. Parents I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: miscarriage / a look into Barbara and John's marriage

John knew he was going to marry Barbara the first day they met. She was willowy and graceful, big doe-blue eyes, her light blonde hair swept in a low bun. She had loud opinions and she did this really cute scrunchy thing with her nose. Barbara found John to be charming, in a wholesome ‘country-boy’ kind of way. He was tall, chestnut hair brushed back, and he the way he smiled slowly made her heart beat a _little_ faster.

They met through a mutual friend while John was in Boston with friends. He stayed an extra week, eating through some of his savings, and when he returned to Pennsylvania - Barbara joined him. 

They dated for less than a year, John proposed, and Barbara graduated high school. 

* * *

Their wedding in the winter of 1979 was small and private. They married in a church, surrounded by some of Barbara’s family, and most of John’s. Barbara’s older sister, Catherine, caught the bouquet. The first song they danced to was “Somebody to Love” by Jefferson Airplane (Barb’s choice). 

* * *

Barbara wanted a family, a large one like her own, and it wasn’t long after they were married that she became pregnant. She had called her mother, still back home in Boston, when she missed her period that week. She told John when he got home from work and they celebrated by dancing in the kitchen together to the radio. Barbara continued her studies for her nursing degree in between reading books about what to expect with her first pregnancy. 

She went to her first ultrasound visit alone and came home with grainy photos of the little ‘ _blob_ ’ that was their first child. John placed it on the fridge. 

* * *

Barbara woke up in the early morning, her cramps more intense than normal, and lifted the quilt to see blood had stained her nightgown. Her scream woke the neighbors. 

* * *

John could not reach her. He felt as if Barbara had secluded herself on a mountain, deep in the clouds, hiding behind pillows and blankets of their bed. Most days, he had to carry her downstairs, and sit her in front of a plate of hot food to get her to eat. It was like treating a wounded animal. 

His heart bled for his lost child, but it bled more to see his wife in pain and agony, with wounds he could not heal. Blonde hair became frazzled in its braid, eyes like the sky became clouded, her hands were frail and they trembled when she cried. 

* * *

No one talked about what happened. Not her mother, not her husband, not her friends at church. She sat in the empty pews and folded her hands together and pressed them to her forehead. 

“Lord, give me the strength to overcome this trial. I know in my heart that you are merciful and kind and that every hurt in life is a lesson. I will never forget the baby girl or boy that I lost, for they are in heaven with you.” 

* * *

Barbara didn’t believe she was pregnant the second time. The missed period could just be stress - since she started her nursing studies again - but then six weeks went by and she was still throwing up in the mornings. 

The day she heard the baby’s heartbeat was one of the happiest days of her life. It was mid-May and she planted peonies and roses in front of their porch. She placed her dirty gloves on her lower stomach and whispered, “They won’t bloom when you’re born, my sweet child, but they will return every year.”

John built the crib in his workshop and they painted the room light blue - they were having a boy.

* * *

John and Barbara sat together in the rocking chairs on their front porch. 

“I like the name Robin.” Barbara said, rubbing her stomach, the humid July air clinging to her skin. The fireflies danced in the front lawn.

“I don’t want my son named after some bird.” John shook his head, sipping on ice water, his muddied boots pushing the rocking chair back and forth.

“Hmm…” Barbara paused, rubbing the spot where the boy had kicked. “How about….Ringo?”

“We ain’t naming him after one of the Beatles, either. No birds, no Beatles.” There was a ghost of a smile on John’s face. His wife was optimistic, the doctors were optimistic, but John was smarter than that. Life can be cruel at any second, any moment, and there was no stopping it.

“Fine.” She leaned her head back, listening to the cicadas and the crickets of the night, “It’s a boy, so you name him.”

“I’ll think of something good. No bugs, birds, or _flowers_.”

“I’m sure you will, dear.”

* * *

Barbara’s mother traveled in from Boston in early January to be there for the birth. His due date was January 18th. 

“I think he’s going to arrive early.” Barbara’s mother said, both hands on her daughter’s abdomen. 

“How can you tell?” Barbara’s hair is tied up with a green colored bandanna. Most of her clothes don’t fit her anymore and she’s moved into the downstairs spare bedroom, since it’s closer to the bathroom, and she doesn’t have to deal with going up and down the stairs. 

She jokes that she can’t fit through doors anymore. 

“I can tell. The baby is low.” She said, pressing slightly, “He’s an eager one. Just like his mother. You were a whole week early.” 

* * *

Barbara’s mother was correct. He arrived a whole three days early. It was a Thursday, with light flurries in the sky, and John named him when the doctor passed the crying child into his arms.

“Phillip.” He said, looking up at his wife, to check for approval.

She wiped her face with both hands, her scalp and skin sweaty and flushed, “A name for kings.” 

John looked down at the baby - _Phillip_ \- his eyes blue and a patch of still-sticky light hair on his head. 

“Hello, Phillip.” John said, cradling him, “Your mother is very excited to meet you. Let’s not keep her waiting.” 


	8. Parents II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: adultery / a white picket fence does not make for a happy family

Barbara was convinced that Phillip was the perfect little baby. He had a perfect little nose, and little hands and sweet blue, wide eyes, and smooth blonde hair. Her mother commented on how much he looked like _her_ and Barbara was _delighted_. 

Phillip kept her company in the evenings while John worked late. Her husband worked two jobs - construction during the day, which was paid under the table, and then he worked on the weekends at his uncle’s garage. She cradled Phillip close to the chest and fed him stories of her childhood, fairytales ripe with witty maidens and gallant knights. She loved him with every ounce of her heart.

* * *

“I’m not going to sit at home forever, John.” Phillip just turned one that week. A sheen layer of frost laid across their lawn and their home. The argument about Barbara going to nursing school had returned. 

“He’s a baby, Barbara! Just turned one years old and you wanna leave him in the hands of a stranger?” John crossed his arms. He was a hulk of a man, years of working outside had defined the muscles of his shoulders and arms. Barbara was wiry and thin, a fast runner, but not much else. She was certain that John would never harm her - but sometimes he did _this_ \- stood with his arms crossed and his blue eyes glaring and she felt a sliver of fear. 

“I could go to night school.” She suggested, setting down the plate she was drying. 

“No.” John shook his head, a shadow of his beard on his jaw. 

“No.” She repeated, hands planted firmly on her hips, “No?”

“It’s been a long day. I don’t want to have this discussion with you.”

“It’s not much of a discussion, John, if you won’t hear me out!”

Her husband pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes, “We’ll talk in the morning.” 

He left the room. Discussion over. They didn’t speak in the morning.

* * *

The frost outside melted and the first touches of green spread across the meadow. Barbara and John continued their routine. Church on Sundays, John worked during the week, they went to bed, and on Saturdays he went to the garage for a few hours. The weeks stirred into each other. 

Sometimes, Barbara walked down the road and spent time with the other mothers on the street. She let Phillip sit on a blanket with the other babies and they shared stories and gossiped. She felt happiest when she was out of the house, the sun kissing her skin, with her son close by and giggling.

* * *

Barbara set Phillip down in his crib for his mid-afternoon nap when she heard the front door open and then shut. She frowned. John was at work. She could make her way to the bedroom, to the drawer where John kept his revolver - but just as the thought passed her mind, a more rational one replaced it: who would break in at _noon_? 

“Hush, hush, baby.” 

Barbara lifted her chin and walked downstairs. If it was a robber, they’d have to go through _her_. And they wouldn’t be leaving this house alive.

“Oh.” Barbara placed a hand over her heart, “It’s you. You gave me a fright.” 

“Ah, sorry ‘bout that, Barb.” The man said, giving her an apologetic smile, white teeth flashing against honeyed skin. “John sent me over to grab his lunch.”

Barbara leaned her shoulder against the door frame, her arms wrapping around her middle. “He could have called.” 

“Ah, you know him.” Oscar said, shaking his head a little, his jet black hair warmed by the sun and shining when the light peeked through the blinds. “Sorry to have frightened you.”

Her heart skipped. “Don’t be. I’ll make you something to eat.”

Oscar worked with John - he was no stranger to her - but what was strange was the thoughts that ran through her mind when he was around. They were sinful, terrible thoughts. Wicked and evil. 

Oscar was easy to make smile, with dimples on his cheeks, his nose bridged with freckles. He was around her age, or so he said, but sometimes when they spoke to each other, Barb always had this feeling that he was older. 

And Oscar, well, he was a bit of a flirt.

Barbara knew she wasn’t ‘ _a looker’_ so much anymore. Her pale skin had stretchmarks from when she carried Phillip. Her breasts weren’t as high. She gained weight after pregnancy - she could see it on her thighs and hips. Barbara couldn’t even remember the last time she dolled up her hair or wore lipstick.

It was a small boost to her self-esteem whenever he said she looked nice, or her hair was beautiful, or her eyes looked radiant. She knew they were just sweet words and he probably said it to plenty of women - he was a bachelor, after all.

And still, that didn’t stop her from blushing.

Barbara sat across from him as he ate the sandwich she made while she munched on some grapes. Their conversation was light and easy. He told her about work, she told him about Phillip. He told her about sports, she told him about art. 

“Has anyone ever told you that your hair looks golden?” He said, a breaching a lull in the conversation with one of his flirtatious remarks. 

She flushed, brushing a strand behind her ear, “It’s a _mess_.” Barbara stood quickly, grabbing his empty plate and glass and moving away.

Her heart hammered loud in her chest as the silverware clacked into the sink. The wooden legs of the chair scooted across the floor and she felt him, like a star burning bright white and hot behind her, and Barbara tried not to breathe too loud.

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

Barbara turned, eyes glancing up and locking with his - tawny and golden, with thick dark lashes that kissed his cheekbones. 

“No, no one has ever said that.” Her hands wrapped against the edge of the counter. It was all she could do to stop herself from reaching out and sweeping a stray, dark lock of hair away from his forehead. If she touched him, she would burn.

The few seconds that passed where an eternity. They stretched and molded, allowing her a brief respite from her reality, right here, right now, between the counter and him - she wasn’t _just_ John’s wife or Phillip’s mother. 

Her back arched upwards as the space between their bodies closed. Oscar’s mouth was warm, heady, lush and sweet. Her hands gripped the thin white fabric of his shirt. Her mind went blissfully blank as his tongue swept across her lower lip and his hands un-clipped her hair and clutched, fingertips digging pleasantly into her scalp. 

“ _Oscar_ …” She whispered, tilting her head back, lips parting and accepting him again. Her hands slid up, fingers carding through his silken hair. Was she telling him to stop? Did she even want him to? He was heat, warmth, fire, everything she needed and wanted. Icarus flew too close to the sun and paid for it. 

“Oscar, wait,” Barbara pulled away, “I’m married. I _love_ John.”

“You didn’t say _happily_ married.” His hands cradled her head and kissed her again, deeply and with such ferocity that she felt her knees go a little weak. She indulged, just for a few more seconds, allowing herself one last luxury before her reality returned and she would need to face her actions. 

This time when their lips parted, Barbara placed her hands on his chest to stop him and to stop herself. 

“Please, Oscar, get back to work. You’ve been gone long enough as it is.”

His eyes softened, “You deserve so much more than this.”

She shrugged. She had no response for that. 

“If you ever change your mind.” Oscar held her gaze, “My home and heart is always open to you. I would love you until the sun burns out.” 

* * *

Barbara can’t even look at John for the next week. She can’t find the time, or the place, or the strength to tell him. He never asks what’s wrong and she wants to weep, wants to scream in his face: ‘I almost did it! I almost walked away!’, just to see if she can pull some feeling from him.

She bounces Phillip, tears welling in her eyes, because even if what she did was wrong, a sin - she did _one thing_ right. She made **him**. She created this life and would make the best decisions to give Phillip the life he deserved. No matter the consequences.

* * *

John came home late, his bones and body weary, the smell of motor oil still sticking to his skin. Already another year gone by, quick and ruthless, robbing him of his time and money. 

His son was sleeping upstairs. His wife had gradually been pulling away from him. Her smiles turned brittle and her eyes quick to move away from his face. She was often asleep when he got home on Saturdays or he passed out well before she came to bed. 

John walked past the dining room. The table was scattered with supplies for Phillip’s second birthday. Barbara always loved to go “all out” with holidays and birthdays. Blue and white streamers, hats and balloons, cut out letters to spell _‘happy birthday_ ’! In the coming week, she’d be planning deserts and food, getting together with the other women on the street to coordinate and check for allergies. 

He opened the fridge and cracked open a beer. 

He went upstairs, expecting to see Barbara’s slim back turned towards him in sleep, and hear the softness of her breathing. Instead, he was met with the opposite. Barbara, sitting up in bed, sheet covering the bottom half of her body and her long hair (when had it gotten so _long_?) reaching her belly button and covering her chest.

“You’re awake?” He cleared his throat, pulling off his shirt and belt.

She tilted her chin upwards. She wanted more than _**that**_ as a response. Barbara swept both hands under her hair, pushing it away, revealing herself to him. Barbara had confided in her closest girlfriends that she and John hadn’t been _seeing_ one another in months. They suggested taking a more _direct_ approach. 

“Come here.” She patted his side of the bed. 

“Honey, I haven’t showered.” John’s shoulders sagged.

“You think I care about that?” An eyebrow raised, her lips pursing “I assure you, I’ve seen worse.”

John didn’t have the energy to argue. The side of the bed dipped with his weight. 

“Good. Now, don’t move.”

John was still handsome. Barbara straddled his waist and cupped his face. Lines had etched themselves around his mouth and the corners of his eyes. She smoothed them with her fingertips. He would always be there. That was the difference between him and Oscar, that flight of fancy.

He was like the earth, solid, and strong. She could plant her roots here. She could grow, she could watch her child (and someday, hopefully, children) grow. Oscar was fire, all heat and passion, but she would plant no gardens in a bonfire.

His hands settled on her waist and she let out a sigh of relief. 

“Hon–” 

“Shh.” She pressed her finger to his lips, “Shh, lie back, my love. Allow me.”

* * *

The idea of being pregnant doesn’t cross her mind until one of her friends mention that she’s looking more ‘ _flushed_ ’ lately. 

“I’m telling you, Barb.” Her friends said, patting her cheeks. “You got a glow about you!” 

Barbara shook her head, smiled, because things were getting a little better with John - so that’s why she was glowing. Surely. 

But then she looked at her calendar, with Phillip clutching her leg, “Momma! I want up!” His arms lifted and his lips turned into a pout.

She scooped him up with a small grunt. He was getting big. The two years had flown by. Phillip was listening, and learning, and speaking, and walking. She looked at him and did not know what happened to that little bundle of blankets that John handed her in the hospital. 

He loved to play with cars and liked to ‘help’ while she was weeding the flowerbed. Barbara didn’t trust him not to accidentally pull out the flowers, so she always gave him the very important task of taking the weeds that mommy tossed and putting them in a pile. 

John was starting to soften now that Phillip was a little older. He could talk to him and Phillip would repeat some words back that he knew. When John would read the paper, he would pull out the comics for Phillip to look at and drawn on. 

She called the doctor’s office that afternoon. 

* * *

“Phillip, dear, how would you feel about being a big brother?” She asked, her joy causing her heart to soar. 

His big blue eyes stared at her. 

“Mommy is going to get…big…like a balloon.” She explained, patting her lower stomach gently, “And inside, will be a little baby boy or girl.”

Her son frowned at her, looking incredulous “Babies?!” 

“Yes.” She laughed, clasping her hands together, “There’s going to be a baby in the house.”

Phillip looked at his toys, and then back to his mother, “Ok.” 

That went well. 

* * *

It gets easier to explain once she starts to show. She let Phillip press his ear up against her swollen belly and he laughed at the swishing noises (that may be his brother moving or it might just be gas). 

John’s construction job ended with the summer and he spent more time at his uncle’s garage instead.

John and Barbra speak one evening how the second child would be less scary, since they’ve gone through it once already, but that doesn’t stop Barbara from feeling nervous every time she feels a cramp.

* * *

Phillip remained with his grandparents, John’s parents, when Barbara goes into labor. 

He cried, confused as to why he couldn’t go to the hospital, and upset that he wasn’t going to meet his brother. And possibly, afraid, that he was being left behind.

* * *

The birth of her second child is a long one. He comes on time, when the doctor’s expected it, but he’s facing the wrong way. Barbara clutched her husband’s hand and prayed, hard and earnest, and placed all her trust in the doctors, nurses and God, to deliver her baby safely. 

John kissed the back of Barbara’s hand. “It’ll be alright, hon.” 

He would always be strong for her. _Always_. 

* * *

“Say hello to your baby brother. His name is Wesley.” John said, holding the newborn baby at eye-level for Phillip. Phillip looked at him, with wonder, and a big smile, and Barbara starts to cry.

Harold McAllister, John’s father, crouched down to get a look at the baby as well. 

“He’s got big ears.” Harold said, looking up at Barbara, “That come from your side of the family?”

She laughed, haphazardly wiping the tears away, “He’s perfect to me.”

“Hello.” Phillip said, his small hand covering Wesley’s tiny, balled pink fist. 

John smiled, wide and beautiful, and Barbara wiped away her tears again. This is where she placed her roots. 


	9. Parents III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> final part of the parenthood trilogy / John & Barbara

_Spring of 1987_

Having two little boys, Barbara decided, was _exhausting_. It helped that Phillip had started pre-school. It gave her a few hours of the day where it was just her and Wesley and whatever needed to be done around the house. 

She pushed Wesley’s bangs out from his face, “You need a hair cut soon, little guy.” 

“No.” Wesley’s cheeks puffed out, lower lip protruding.

Barbara shook her head, “Come on, help mommy pick up your toys.” 

* * *

John quit construction and now worked full-time at his uncle’s garage. Barbara hoped it would give him more time with the family, but it really had been more of the same. She saw her husband the most on the weekends and evenings when he came home from work.

Evenings were the best time of the day. She would set the table and settle Wesley in his highchair and the whole family would be together. Phillip would talk about school - he was very proud to be in school now. Wesley and Barbara would talk about their day - grocery shopping, cleaning, visiting the neighbors. John would just sit and listen. 

She would brush and braid her hair before climbing into bed. Before she clicked off her lamp, she’d look over at the photo on her nightstand. It was one of the few she kept nearby. It had been Wesley’s first Christmas, though he was only 3 months old at the time. Everyone looked so happy. 

John would come to bed later and Barbara would be asleep. 

* * *

“He’s getting so big.” Oscar smiled, lying on his stomach, with Wesley and Phillip .The patchwork quilt was large and warm from the sun. Oscar had remained nearby, still unmarried, and he never brought up the kiss they shared. She was thankful for that. He became a stalwart friend. 

Barbara returned his smile, “They both are. Isn’t that right boys?” She looked at her two little ones. Phillip was nearly a head taller than his brother, his golden hair illuminated by the high-noon sun. Wesley was his little shadow. Deep, chestnut colored hair and rosy cheeks. 

He followed Phillip everywhere. The first day of preschool, Wesley had cried, because he didn’t want his brother to leave.

Phillip passed his toy truck to Wesley, babbling something about how it’s a _firetruck_ , and they have to go put out the fire. Wesley still had the chubbiness of a young baby. Phillip had started to grow out of it, but his cheeks were still round. She loved them so dearly. 

“Do you think you’ll have any other children?” He asked, and Barbara looked over at him, eyebrows raised. His question surprised her.

“I don’t know. John and I haven’t spoke about it.” She tapped her chin in thought, “I’d like to.” 

“Motherhood suits you.”

She threw her head back in a laugh, blonde curls coming lose from hair clip, “Does it really?” 

“You have a kind and giving soul,” Oscar said, “It is no wonder you want to become a nurse.”

Barbara ran her fingers through Phillips soft hair, “Someday…” She whispered, but it was more to herself than Oscar.

* * *

The summer was long and humid. She filled a small, kiddie pool with water from the garden hose and let Phillip and Wesley play. Wesley would fuss anytime she had to take him out to re-apply sunscreen. 

“I can help you, Momma.” Phillip said and he would show Wesley a leaf or a flower or a bug. It would be enough distraction for Barbara to smear the sunscreen on Wesley’s face and ears. 

He’d still end up wailing and arguing that he didn’t need it.

Barbara rolled her eyes, placing Wesley back in the pool, “You’re not stronger than the sun, sweetheart.” 

“I am.” Phillip said, with all the confidence of a five year old boy.

“You need sunblock, too. Come here.” Barbara smeared the lotion onto Phillip’s back and neck, instructing him to close his eyes as she covered his face. 

“Wesley! Don’t put your hat in the pool. No - ugh.” She sighed, wringing it out, and giving Wesley ‘The Look’: lips slightly pursed and brows pinched.

Phillip just laughed.

* * *

“What the _**hell**_ do you think you’re doing?!” John grit out, teeth bared, and glaring. His truck door slammed shut. 

“Helping.” Oscar said, turning off the motor of the lawn mower. It whirred to a stop. His white tank top was sweaty and grass-stained. “Barbara mentioned that the lawn needed to be cut before her mother came by next weekend.”

“And I was gonna get to it next weekend.” John snapped, fists curling at his sides. “You got your own damn house, don’t ya?”

“Hey,” Oscar lifted both hands, taking a step back from the lawn mower. “Like I said, I was just being helpful.” 

“Oh? Were you?!” John took a step forward, noticing that he and Oscar were about the same height. Oscar was angular and toned, a reverse image to John’s own stocky build. They stood chest to chest, eye to eye.

Oscar’s amber colored eyes narrowed, “Chill out, man.” 

“I will mow my own lawn. You hear me? My house. My wife. My lawn.” John pointed to the house, himself, and then the lawn, respectively. 

Oscar looked at John, from head to toe, and seemed to be considering something. John felt the crackle of tension in the air. If there was going to be a fight, he was going to be ready for it. Oscar had once been his friend, but after John left construction, they had drifted apart. 

“Dad!” Phillips’ cry broke the energy. The two men stepped back as the boy rounded the corner of the house, wearing nothing but his swim shorts. 

“Hey kiddo!” John laughed, crouching down, and he picked Phillip up into his arms. 

He gave Oscar one final, searing glance before walking back into the house.

* * *

_Winter of 1987_

Barbara finished wrapping the last of the presents in the basement. Wesley just celebrated his third birthday that fall. John had even spoken about enrolling Wesley into pre-school early, if they could, so Barbara could return to her studies.

She looked at the clock and sighed. It was late. She stood, stretching her back, and rubbing her neck. She would be 27 next year. The thought of almost being 30 frightened her. If she did want more kids, and she did want to finish her schooling, how much time did she really have left?

Barbara climbed the stairs and checked in Phillip’s room. He was fast asleep, the nightlight in the corner emitting a soft glow throughout the room. She went to the next door, peeking into Wesley’s room, and a swell of emotion hit her chest. He was getting so big. They were growing up too fast. 

She slipped into the room, quiet as a mouse, and fixed the blanket. She tucked him in and swept his bangs out of his face. He made a soft, baby-like noise and her heart clenched in her chest.

Her own bedroom was equally as quiet. She felt her way through the darkness and peeled back the covers. John grumbled something in his sleep. 

She tucked her cold toes against his legs and fell asleep before her head hit the pillow.

* * *

John gave her a pair of earrings for Christmas. Phillip made her a card (in school). Wesley made her a picture and explained the lines and squiggles in detail - “This is you.” He said, pointing to a circle with an odd smiley face, and four long lines for - she assumed - arms and legs. “This is daddy.” Another circle, slightly bigger with a bunch of squiggles around the mouth. A beard?. “This is Phillip.” A yellow circle this time with very long legs for some reason. 

“This is our dog.” Wesley explained, pointing to a small circle with two big triangle-like ears.

“We don’t have a dog.” Phillip pointed out, surrounded by colorful wrapping paper, still in his footsie pajamas.

“Not yet.” Wesley nodded. Barbara envied children. They were so _certain_ of things. If they say that the sun is a wizard’s spell, and that the old house down the lane holds a vampires, and that rocks are gems or have gold inside - well - they believe it with all the childhood innocence in their hearts.

“A dog would be nice.” John agreed, patting the young boy’s head.

Barbara shot him a glance, “Someday, maybe.” 

* * *

_August of 1988_

Both her children were in school now. Wesley was in preschool and Phillip started Kindergarten. She had the house to herself.

Well, mostly. 

Her bulging stomach was her company and the life within it. She was six months along with her due-date somewhere in late-November. Phillip had been thrilled to learn he’d be getting another little brother or sister.

Wesley? Not so much.

“I have Phillip.” He had said, looking at his older brother, confusion all over his young face. “I don’t need more brothers!”

“This is a good thing, sweetie.” Barbara had assured him, but Wesley was unmoved by her words. 

It had taken Phillip’s explanation of things to get him to come around.

“There’s a baby in there and when it comes out, we have to look after him. That’s what big brothers do. That’s what you will do.”

Wesley seemed to like this idea of big brother responsibility. They would each take turns touching her stomach and listening and talking to it. Barbara would sit on the floor of the living room while her boys colored, or played with their toys, or watched TV, and they would talk to the baby.

* * *

_November 22 1988_

When Barbara gave birth to a beautiful baby girl, her face was tear-streaked and smiling. And the doctor gave a hoot of surprise and held up a baby boy.

She had squeezed her husband’s hand and tearfully looked up at the ceiling. She had lost her first child, and now, God was showing his plan. 

As agreed, Barbara got to name the girl: Rosalind Dove. 

John named the boy: Matthew John.

She did not notice her husband’s expression as they passed one of the babies to him. Both children had heads full of dark black hair and their eyes - for a time - were blue.

* * *

_Spring of 1989_

Oscar held little Rosalind in his arms, “Ah, look at you!” He rocked her, gently, and looked up to speak to one of the other guests. It was Barbara’s 28th birthday party. And despite John asking that Barbara not invite Oscar, her response had been, “He is my _friend_ , John. He has been with this family as long as I’ve lived here. I will not exclude him!” 

He watched Oscar hold his daughter. The beer can made a slight ‘crunch’ noise between his hand. He could see it in the hair, jet black and shining, and in the eyes too. Oscar’s were more brown, but Rosie’s and Matthew’s eyes were a green-ish or brown. They even might have the same nose.

He watched as his wife took the child from Oscar’s arms, her lips splitting into a brilliant smile, laughing at something Oscar said. 

John waited for all the children to be asleep before stepping into the kitchen where Barbara was still cleaning from the party. The doubt ate at his very bones. His sleep was restless. 

“Oh, honey! You’re still up.” She turned back to the dishes. “I’ll be up soon.”

He exhaled.

“Barb, can you sit down a minute?”

She must have noticed something in his tone, because she stopped, dried her hands, and sat. 

John stared at her. His _wife_. They had been married 10 years now. Her blonde hair was pale in the overhead light of the kitchen, her eyes soft blue, a floral apron strapped over her clothes. He thought of everything he knew about her (or thought he knew). 

“I have one question and it’ll be the only question I ever ask about it.” He began and watched as her expression became confused and then guarded.

“Okay…go on, then.”

“Is Oscar more than a friend to you?”

Barbara jerked back as if he had hit her, “Excuse me!? No! My God, he is a friend, one of my few good friends. Nothing more than that and he never has been! What? You think just because he’s unmarried that I’ll be tempted by him? That I’m too weak as a woman to make my own choices and set my own boundaries?!”   
  
She stood, untying her apron and tossing it on the table, “I have been married to you for ten years, John. Or have you forgotten? That I packed up my entire life in Boston to come here, to be _**with you**_ , to have a life, _**with you** ,_ to have a family _**with you**.” _

“He just acts…he acts like he knows you better.”

She scoffed, “You know what? I’m not doing this. You can sleep on the couch tonight or head over to your uncle’s.” Barbara stood tall, and poked him in the chest. “And you think, John McAllister, you think long and hard about what you just tried to accuse me of. Infidelity is a sin and I’m a Godly woman. I made a vow in December of 1979, that I would be true and faithful, in sickness and in health, I would be with you for this day and all days after. I’m going to bed.” 

John finished cleaning the dishes and slept on the couch that night. 

He did not bring it up again. 


	10. Phillip III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not a hero, only a man

The nightmares never stop. They grow, shift, and mold around him. They are as fluid as blood, as permanent as bones, and attach to him, like small tumors. Phillip is thankful for hotels and transient stops. No one knocks when he awakes, drenched in sweat, and screaming. The nightmares do not follow him on planes or in cars. They cannot keep up. He never falls into a deep enough sleep to let them catch him. 

He laces his fingers together, sat atop a hotel balcony, and the whips of smoke swirl in front of his vision. 

“That’ll kill you someday, Morgan.” He says to his boss, sitting beside him, on her third cigarette.

“A bullet will kill me first, McAllister.” She replies, snubbing the butt out on the glass ashtray. 

They fall into silence and twilight descends over the sleepy town. The first stars begin to peak through soft clouds. He hears the lighter flick and the smell of nicotine fills the air again. 

“It’s always worse when it’s kids.” Morgan refers to the reason they reside in this back-water, population 2,000 town. Three kids went missing in the span of a month. Their team knew the statics and the odds weren’t in the children’s favor. 

“We know the pattern. He’s likely to try again and soon.” Phillip’s voice is stiff. It’s easier this way. To approach these cases at a distance, to build a wall between himself and the families who suffer. 

“And we’ll have to find him before our time is up.” Morgan sighs and flicks the ash over the balcony railing. “A whole seventy-two hours.” 

* * *

The nightmares mock him of his failings. They remind him of the people he’s failed, the families who were torn asunder, the children lost, the soldiers dead and forgotten in foreign lands. 

His lungs are thick with smoke and he’s cradling a child to his chest. He’s running, but his legs feel slow and clumsy. He pushes and pushes and squints against the cloying, burning blackness. He hears a voice. It’s distant, but there’s panic within it, and he feels like a rat in a maze. Phillip looks down and the child in his arms has decayed - no more than bits of flesh stuck to bone. The sockets stare at him. Accusing him. 

Phillip wakes, eyes wide and alert, with the sheets tangled around his legs and a layer of sweat across his skin. His heart beats strong against his ribs. 

A long time ago, he thought of himself as a hero. He’s _saved_ lives. But, their numbers do not stack up against the lives lost. For every child returned home, there’s a thousand more still missing. For every killer brought to justice, there’s bodies freshly rotting in the ground. 

He’s no longer disillusioned to his place in the world. Phillip _does_ save people, but not always. He fails. He makes mistakes. He struggles. 

He is too flawed to be an untouchable hero. He’s only a man. 


	11. (au) do you remember?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (au) phillip is given an undercover assignment

“you have to pick someone else.” phillip says, voice stern, sliding the file away. if he cannot touch it, then it will not touch him. 

“we can’t.” morgan purses her lips. she likes this less than he does, but the marionette strings are pulled by those much higher than she. “you’re the only one with the connections.” 

the rationalization does not make it any easier to swallow.

“i have a _wife_.” his fingertips press firmly on the warm metal wrapped around his ring finger. “i have a daughter - she’s almost five.”

“phillip,” the director sighs, and gives him a long, unforgiving, look - “it’ll be six months, tops. the head of the martino family is this close,” the director lifts his hand, pinching thumb and index finger together, “from spending the rest of his rotten days behind bars.”

“can you be him, again? do you remember him?” morgan asks and phillip stares at her. he doesn’t want to remember. that’s the hard truth of it, but she’s asking him to step once more into the abyss and welcome the horrors within it.

“what about my family?” he doesn’t answer her question. 

“they’ll be kept safe, phillip.” the director says, calm, “if anything goes sideways with you, we’ll make sure they’re safe.”

“i want that in writing.” phillip stands from his chair and catches his reflection in the glass of the window. he makes a point to remember himself - here and now - pressed suit, hair combed back, the feeling of diane’s soft hair touching his chin as he kissed her forehead that morning.

phillip never intended to return to this life. it was one of his very first, ‘real’ cases with the fbi. he was only undercover for six and a half months before a raid went awry and phillip was left for dead. the infamous martino family. he knew them well. he had become part of their crew during that short time, but he was by no means a member of the family. 

they used phillip for muscle. threatening competition. shaking down businesses. cracking fingers. the worst had been a homemade blow torch. his willingness to engage in violence made him well-liked. he was smart, and level-headed, and didn’t speak out of turn. an old blood family like that appreciated those things in a man.

he slips the wedding ring from his finger and drops it into the safety deposit box. there is a white line on his skin. his only reminder. morgan watches him, sympathetic, as he removes the contents of the box - his other self.

his license. unregistered gun. a flask. 

“don’t get yourself killed out there, mccallister.” morgan says, her eyes narrowing, “and there’s something else you should know.”

“another surprise?”

“your family can’t know where we’ve placed you. if your cover is blown, they’ll come for them, _**after**_ they’ve killed you.” 

he clenches his fists, “you said they’d be safe. i won’t jeopardize them.”

“then don’t blow your cover. we will do what we can to keep them safe within reason.” morgan runs her fingers through her hair, “the plan is to keep them in the dark. that’s the safest course of action - like when someone goes into witness protection, their family doesn’t know where they’ve gone or what their new name is.”

“this isn’t witness protection.” 

“i know. i’m drawing parallels so you can see my side of things. i don’t like this either, phillip.” 

he checks the clip of the gun, shaking his head, “save the sentiment, morgan. we’re both just doing our jobs.”

* * *

phillip pulled the leather jacket over his shoulders. he shut the bathroom mirror. his tongue pokes at his lip, the cut still fresh and tender. he can already see the shadows under his eyes.

“you’re going to have to hit me.” he said, loosening his tie.

“what?” morgan drew back. 

“cole got into fights. that was part of his persona. if i arrive looking neat and clean, they’ll expect something. so, come on.” he extends his arms.

“i can’t hit you.” 

“yes, you can. now either hit me or i’ll go and pick a fight outside.”

the motel room is warm and the a/c by the window just rattles when he turns it on. 

he stares at his reflection. reminds himself who he is _now_ and leaves.

the bouncer pats him down for weapons and steps aside. the bar is heavy with smoke and the acrid smell of beer and vomit. the tv plays some sports station and the billiard balls clack together. 

“as i live and fuckin’ breathe.” one of the martino boys notices him right away. a man of his height and scowl doesn’t appear often. “yo! boys! we got a live one here, holy _sheeeet_.”

phillip smirks, cocky, self-assured, “you didn’t think those fed bastards woulda killed me, did you?” 

“holy fuck is that cole?” another pipes up, cigarette dangling from his mouth. 

“where you been? it’s been what - eight years? something like that?” phillip recognizes him. there’s a small scar under his eyebrow. he’s one of the younger brothers. ruthless. once lost a tooth during a fist fight with phillip. it’s been fixed, neat and clean. they call him ‘ _sonny_ ’. it’s not his name, but being the youngest, it just stuck. 

“closer to nine, you gonna get me a beer?” phillip slides into the bar stool, leveling the bartender with his gaze.

“shit, yeah, hey - what the hell happened?” he’s lucky. sonny was one of the crew there during the raid. the lies slip past his tongue like a second language.

“well, you were there. shit went down.” phillip grabs the glass, takes a sip of the beer on tap and raps his knuckles against the bar, “i got fucking shot.”

“no way!” sonny orders shots for the bar. its almost ironic.

phillip rolls his eyes and lifts the dingy fabric of his shirt. against muscle and sinew, a circular scar just near his rib cage. sonny lets out a whistle. then again, bloodshed always impressed sonny. 

“took a slug to the chest, punctured my lung, and when i recovered - they read my miranda rights in the hospital.” 

“you were in prison this whole time?’

“most of my time was in solitary.” he grins, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, “they don’t take kindly to inmates who try and start riots.”

sonny lets out a hoot of laughter, “fuckin’ incredible.” he lifts his shot glass, “to cole, the meanest, toughest-to-kill bastard, who owes me a fuckin’ drink.” 

* * *

he’s lucky he met sonny first. any of the other brothers would be harder to convince. but, he and sonny spilled blood together. there was a bond there, one that phillip did not want to look too closely into. 

returning to the crew took time. 

sonny could vouch for him and the fbi did a clean job of falsifying arrest reports. but, a family never got to be this powerful by trusting every idiot who walked into their bar. 

phillip only allows himself to remember his family when he was back in his motel room. before bed. in the shower. it was dangerous to remember his real identity - it could cause a slip up. but, it was his only chance of keeping his morale high. 

“i never knew you to be a straight shooter, cole.” michael, one of the older brothers, clicks his tongue in disapproval. 

phillip scoffs, “and i never knew _you_ to have good coke.” he reaches for the metal tray, mentally prepares himself, and squeezes his eyes shut as they fill with water. 

he snorts again, shaking his head, “fuck!” 

“see, i told you.” sonny leans against the back of his chair, “he ain’t no pussy.” 

phillip knows what will be asked of him. what he must sacrifice. it’s corrosive to the soul, but he grinds his teeth together and shoulders the burden. 

he stares into bloodshot eyes in the morning and rinses his mouth with vodka. 

they assign him to his old job. sonny and micheal have tested him. he’s been in two brawls and the drugs are never in short supply and the _violence_..it’s the undercurrent. it’s the life force of this family. phillip does not look away. he watches a man beat to death with a tire iron and doesn’t flinch. 

his days are circular. get up, drink, do whatever sonny or michael needs doing, smoke or snort whatever they offer him, drink, return to his motel and sleep. it’s been six months and he’s no closer to the head of the snake than he was when he started. 

* * *

he throws up on his daughter’s birthday and his hand hovers over the payphone.

“not yet,” he whispers, to himself. “not yet.” 

* * *

“so uh, you got a girlfriend or what?” sonny asks, leaning against the sleek black metal of his car.

phillip takes a long inhale of his cigarette, “nah, too needy.” 

“i hear that.” sonny’s profile is stark white against the moonlight, his dark hair combed back, his nose tweaked a little to the left from a fight a few years back. they are all bad men. even him. even if he was born into this life, with no choice to escape or walk away.

“look cole, i’ll i’m saying is that a guy like you - “ sonny nods, “you could fuck any girl. you got that tall, brooding thing going for ya.”

“i ain’t interested.” he snubs the cigarette out under his boot. “women just cause problems.”

“yeah, i never said you had to keep the bitch around. look, just say the word, i’ll have three of the hottest chicks from my club in your motel _tonight_.”

“pass.”

* * *

it’s a bad day. they’re all bad days, _really_ , but this one was worse. phillip is asked to rough people up. that is common. that is his job. be the brawn. scare people. break fingers. break arms and legs. strangle. waterboard. whatever he needs to do.

he’s not asked to _**kill**_. 

not until tonight.

“end it.” michael passes the gun to phillip. he takes it without hesitation. he fires without hesitation. he drags the body by the feet and into the river without hesitation. 

that’s what scares him the most.

what has he become?

* * *

his fingers tremble as he dials. it rings twice. he hears her voice and it brings tears to his eyes. he bites his fist. “Hi! You’ve reached the McAllister household! Leave a message!” 

the coins clink out of the payphone and he presses his forehead into the cool metal. he shouldn’t have called. her _voice_. he needs this to be finished. he needs to return to his family. his life. he needs ambrosia to know that he’s alive. that he’s still fighting to get to her. to come home.

* * *

sonny slides into the booth next to him. “you ever done E?” he asks, his eyes dark and bright. 

“isn’t that shit people bring to festivals in the forests and shit?” phillip takes a sip of his whiskey. 

“yeah, but it’s a good time.” sonny shrugs, the music blaring, the lights flashing red and blue and green. at least phillip has learned the secret location and the ins and outs of sonny’s club. a small victory, he supposes. he doubts this place, tucked into a warehouse, with the martino men working it, is reported on anyone’s taxes.

phillip finishes his drink. his mask is secured on tight. “alright, i might as well catch up.”

he makes out with a red haired woman in a dark corner of the club. her nails dig into his shoulders. she sighs his name ‘ _cole_ ‘ and lifts a leg around his waist. the drug makes him giddy and light, fast-talking, a buzz of energy coursing through him not like cocaine but close. something else. something deeper. but, even with this stranger clawing at his skin and grinding into him - he can only think of one woman. one person. he doesn’t stop her when she pulls him into the men’s restroom. 

“man, I was afraid you’d gone celibate.” sonny says the next morning, clapping his shoulder.

phillip doesn’t correct him. nothing actually _happened_. but, if sonny wants to believe him a dog like the rest of them then that’s all the better for him. 

* * *

when someone answers the phone, phillip feels his voice catch in this throat. “hello?”

“hey—” the voice drops lower, to a whisper, phillip?”

“wesley…oh god…” he closes his eyes. he can see his younger brother, big ears, a bigger smile, sitting across from him on the chess table.

there is so much he wants to ask. so much he wants to say. it’s been a **_year_**.

“You’re….okay?” wesley asks, swallowing. 

“Yeah for the most part. How’s diane? And ambrosia? Are they okay? Are they _**safe**_?”

“Yeah, yeah, they’re okay - what’s going on?”

“I can’t talk about it.” he scratches his jaw, “Just tell Ambrosia that I’m okay. That I’ll be home as soon as I can.” 

he slams the phone down on the receiver. phillip lifts the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and walks down the sidewalk. his heart feels lighter in knowing that his family is safe. he’s not sure what the fbi told them. they would be kept in the dark, but to what extent? did they just tell his family he was away on an assignment? he didn’t know and didn’t have anyone to ask.

* * *

sonny cracks his knuckles. a nervous habit. “you’ve done right by me this past year, cole.” 

phillip kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, both eyebrows raised, but doesn’t speak.

“dad thinks we should get you involved in more… _projects_.” 

his heart leaps. but, he doesn’t show it. the zippo illuminates his face in half shadow as he lights his cigarette. 

“i look forward to it.” is all he says. 


	12. Siblings II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don't want charity // phillip & matthew

Phillip always believed it was his duty to look after his younger siblings. Wesley was easy. Phillip towered over the other students and all it took was a menacing glare or a timely crack of his knuckles. It would send the bullies running. Once Wesley was in high school, he handled himself after Phillip graduated. Wesley could talk himself out of most situations.

Rosalind, his only sister, gladly took to learning self-defense when Phillip came home from basic training.

Matthew. Matthew was a whole other beast.

With a bustled lip and defiant hazel eyes, Matthew kicked the soccer ball into the fence. Just to hear the satisfying THUMP as it hit the wooden panels. Phillip watched him from the back porch.

Matthew’s anger was volatile, hot and bursting, a volcano combined with teenage hormones.

Phillip had learned to temper his anger, let it cool, and steel it. He was deliberate, using anger to intimidate - when necessary. His anger was a tool. Matthew’s was a wildfire.

Matthew’s shoulders tensed as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He kicked up bits of grass as he walked.

“What’re you doin here?”

“Visiting.”

“Mmph. Barb must be thrilled.” Matthew says it with an edge. And Phillip doesn’t understand. No matter how many times the question is asked, Matthew never gives him an answer.

“I suppose so.” Phillip replies, one eyebrow lifted, his voice level. Phillip cannot find what ties them. Blood is the obvious answer. But, Matthew calls his own mother by her first name. Blood doesn’t matter much to his little brother.

“God, you’re a dick.” Matthew’s lip curls up and the screen door bounces from the frame as he slams it. Phillip doesn’t try speaking to him again. Not until Christmas.

“There’s always an opportunity in the armed forces.” Phillip suggests - and he means well, he does. Wesley is already attending community college part time and Rosalind started applying for scholarships during her Junior year. He doesn’t want to see Matthew be left behind. He doesn’t want to see his brother without a purpose.

Matthew rolls his eyes, “Not looking for charity or.” He stresses the word, “To have my dick blown off.”

Phillip opens his mouth to counterpoint that the marines exist, and the navy, and the coast guard - it’s not like The Army is the only option, but their mother is entering the kitchen with her arms full of groceries and John’s voice booming behind her.

Phililp doesn’t want to start a fight on Christmas.

Matthew throws the glass bottle into the concrete wall of the underpass. It shatters and the few drops of beer splatter onto the dirty pavement.

He’s told himself he’s done feeling sorry for himself. His dad is an asshole - big deal. Can’t change that. And his brothers can do no wrong. They only serve to make all of his mistakes look a hundred times worse.

It’d be so much easier if one of them had a drug problem.

Matthew recognizes the footsteps and he audibly groans, “Stalking me now?” He turns, his scarf fluttering in the January breeze. Snowflakes land in his dark hair.

Phillip purses his lips. Matthew wouldn’t be surprised if the government replaced his brother with a cyborg. There a small, fuzzy and fleeting memories of a boy with blonde hair laughing and running through the yard.

Phillip went cold, matching the frost and snowflakes around them. Matthew did not - would not let that happen to him. Matthew would always strive to be loud, and bright, and in-the-moment. No one would smother him.

“Come on home, Matthew. Mom’s worried.”

“You’re not the boss of me.” Matthew despises how childish it sounds, but he already has John dictating his life. He doesn’t need John 2.0.

“You’re seventeen. I could call the police.”

“Narc!” Matthew coughs the word into his gloved hand.

“Seriously?” Phillip makes no move to leave.

“Dude, I don’t want you here.” Matthew opens the cooler he brought with him, grabs a beer, then shuts it to sit on top like a stool.

“Why is that?” Phillip crosses his arms.

“C’mon.” Matthew cracks the beer open, “You’re a stick in the mud and a pain in my ass.”

“Fine.” There’s a tic in Phillip’s jaw, “If you don’t want me looking out for you, then I won’t. But, don’t call me when the cops show up and arrest you for underage drinking.”

“Eh.” Matthew shrugs and takes a sip of the foam off the top. Police don’t concern him. He can outrun them. “I never asked you to look out for me.”

“It’s not about asking, Matt. It’s about family.”

Matthew is silent. He stays silent until Phillip’s hulking form is out of earshot and out of sight.

“Who says we’re family anyway?” He mutters, tilting his head back as he finishes the beer.


	13. Matthew I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> seventeen is a hard age when your dad hates your guts // matthew

i.   
_all i ever wanted was for you to look at me_  
and say you were proud,  
even of the jagged edges and my broken crown  
but scorn, scorn, scorned again -  
are you really surprised?  
its you i despise   
  
  
Rosalind flinched at her brothers’ door slamming shut. She waited, confirming no other steps followed him, and climbed off her bed. She tapped their secrete knock. One-two-One-One-two-two. Her bright orange nail polish chipped on her thumb. The door creaked open, his face still red from shouting, and he wordlessly moved aside for her.

His room was a mess of black clothing and posters - sports, bands, and the borderline pornographic. The air smelled artificially sweet. She noticed the incense lit and the window open, the muggy summer air clawing its way in through the screen. 

“There’s no way he doesn’t know you smoke.” _He_. Rosalind stopped using the word ‘dad’ with her brother, even if it pained her. Matthew would go bright red with anger again if she did. She could handle her own sadness. She did not know how to carry his.

She fixed the red comforter and took a seat on the corner of his bed. The springs squeaked under her weight.

“In this house, he’s lucky I’m not shooting up.” Matthew flicked ashes into a deformed clay bowl - an art project gone awry. The joint perched neatly between his fingers. 

He saw the horror on his sister’s face and he softened, “Relax - needles are gross.”

“Was he mad about your biology test?” 

“Sort of?” Matthew sighed, smoke unfurling from his nostrils. “He’s mad about everything I do.”

She doesn’t know how to reply. He’s not wrong, even if he’s being a _tad_ over dramatic. 

“You ever think about that? How he doesn’t treat us the same as Wes and Phillip?”

Rosalind stared at her brother, his eyes are distant and glazed, and his mouth is pressed thin. She curled her legs underneath herself, the flannel pajamas creating crackling static as she does so. 

“Matt…” 

“I’m serious.” He cut in, “It’s like..I dunno..” He tore his fingers through dark curls, his face distraught, “He’s got a grudge against us.”

“I don’t know..he could have been like this with our brothers, but we were just too little to remember.”

Matthew shook his head.

Rosalind stayed with him until she fell asleep, curled on the corner of his bed like a house cat. Matthew tossed a blanket over her and left the house at the first glowing light of dawn.

* * *

He liked walking the neighborhood. It cleared his head. It was a suburban toilet bowl caked with dead-eyed housewives and aggressively patriotic husbands, but it was all he knew. He entertained the idea of running away but, he couldn’t leave Rosie. John wasn’t that bad. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

“Hey!” Matthew looked up, eyes meeting his neighbor; Oscar. “You’re up early, kid.”

Matthew snorted and rolled his eyes, “Duh.”

Oscar grinned and it took Matthew off guard - a teacher or his parents would have snapped at him for being rude. Oscar just _smiled_. 

“You wanna come help me smash stuff with a hammer?”

“W-what?”

“I renovate houses. Part of it involves tearing up floorboards and knocking down walls.” 

Matthew froze and hesitated. He was a stray animal being offered a scrap of meat. Unless Oscar simply wanted free labor out of him. But, smashing stuff _did_ sound fun. His anger was bunched into his shoulders and his lips had twisted into a grimace. The only thing that would release the tension would be alcohol. Or maybe more weed. But, this was new. A responsible destruction of property. 

He settled for a shrug and hoped to look nonchalant and cool; “Whatever, man.”

Oscar flashed that smile again, bright and unguarded, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Great, let’s get breakfast first. C’mon.” His palm slapped the side of his pick up truck.

Matthew struggled to understand the emotion swirling in his chest. He decided to leave it alone for now.

* * *

Oscar asked him about school. Matthew told him about football tryouts and his recent ‘girlfriend’. He asked about Rosie. Matthew told him ‘she’s fine’. He didn’t ask about Wesley, or Phillip, or John, or even Barb. He asked about Matthew’s favorite subjects (workshop, geometry), his friends (dude, I’m friends with everyone), and his hobbies (I like making stuff). 

Normally this type of small talk would warrant sarcastic remarks from Matthew. Today was different. Oscar was different. He listened. He didn’t judge, or make comments, he just nodded and would sometimes ask Matthew to elaborate. 

Maybe the rumors about Oscar being gay were true. Maybe he was hitting on him. 

Matthew stabbed his fork into his syrup-soaked pancakes and asked directly, “Are you gay?” 

Oscar calmly took a sip of coffee. The question didn’t surprise him. “No.”

“Everyone says you are.” Matthew chewed and spoke around his food. Small pieces of pancake sprinkled onto his plate.

“Boredom often leads to idle, petty gossip.” Oscar shrugged.

Matthew frowned at that. “So….you don’t do anything?” 

A dark eyebrow raised up into his hairline, “To a bunch of neighbors with little time on their hands? No, Matthew, I don’t do anything. I ignore it.” 

“That doesn’t stop people from talking shit, though! You have to stop them.”

“And what would you do?”

“Fight them.” He said, with all the confidence of a boy-not-quite-a-man. 

“To prove your heterosexuality?” 

“No!” Matthew snorted, “To get them to shut the hell up.” Matthew pushed his empty plate away. “No one talks shit when they know you’ll defend yourself.”

“That doesn’t really work outside of high school. And I would feel awful if I used force over others weaker than me. Being a bully is nothing to be proud of, Matt.”

Matthew slunk in the booth, crossing his arms and feeling admonished and embarrassed. 

“Whatever.”

* * *

Oscar played music while they worked. It ranged from rock, to jazz, to crooning love songs. He said Matthew could bring his own cassettes if he wanted, but Matthew didn’t mind the mix tapes. It kept it interesting. 

The hot June sun beat down on the brown lawn and scorched through the old windows. There was a lot less smashing of walls and a lot more cleaning and hauling garbage. But, Oscar did show him how to use the large floor sander. That was cool. 

By noon, they were both sweaty and grimy and Matthew couldn’t stop grinning. 

He couldn’t wait to tell Rosie.

“Tomorrow, we’re going to put new carpet in the living room and bedrooms.” Oscar said, opening his cooler and handing Matthew a soda. 

“No beer?” He joked as he cracked it open.

A line formed between Oscar’s brows as he studied Matthew, a shadow appearing over his face. Matthew shrugged and pushed the topic away.

“So, why not paint the walls first while there’s no carpet to spill it on?” 

“I like to work from the floor up. Painting is my favorite.”

The ate cold-cut sandwiches and Oscar showed him out to tear up the carpet they’d replace tomorrow. 

Oscar told him about his sister and how he was the eldest of five children.

“It’s a wonderful thing to be a brother.” He said, hauling carpet out to the dumpster with Matthew. “And a sister who loves you is a precious, precious gift. She can understand you, she can fight with you, she can care for you. And you - you’re so fortunate to have a twin sister. That means good luck forever.”

“Really?” Matthew squinted in the bright sun, “How so?”

“People used to believe the birth of twins was a sign of a great harvest and that the twins were good luck and brought prosperity into their family for generations to come.”

“I don’t feel very lucky.” Matthew brushed his hands on his jeans. He thought of John. His older brothers, perfect and shining beacons of ‘what a son should be!’. He thought of Rosie, staying up until the early hours of the morning with him, just so he wouldn’t be alone. Maybe Oscar had a point there. 

Matt didn’t realize he was frowning until Oscar’s hand, calloused and warm, was squeezing his shoulder. 

“Look at me.” Matthew obliged. “Matthew, you did good work today. Thank you for your help.”

Matthew went home that night smelling of sweat and dust and he’d never been happier. 

* * *

Matthew crept into the kitchen like a thief. The damp towel still draped over his shoulders. His curls dripping water onto it. 

“How was Eric’s?” His mother’s voice floated into the room as she entered, carrying a basket of laundry under her arm.

“Huh?” Matthew’s brain rattled, then - of course, duh - Rosie. The saint. “Oh, good. His mom says hello.” Rule of thumb: Suburban moms always said hello to each other through the children.

“She is such a sweetheart.” Barbara opened the washing machine door, loading the dark-colored clothes into it. “She invited us to her cookout next weekend, you know.” 

Matthew felt a sudden, sharp tug of his intuition. Her voice was light, but she was idly making conversation about a BBQ that Matthew would probably avoid and her face was turned away from his. Barbara didn’t _do_ that. She was always open, inviting, with big smiles and kind, blue eyes.

The potato chip crunched between his teeth. Barbara was discussing her recipe for cole slaw and whether or not she should use pickles. Her back still remained to him. Her hair nearly yellow in the florescent light. She felt untouchable. Unreachable. 

“Mom, you ok?” He watched her shoulders bunch, palms pressed against he cool edge of the machine as it swished and rumbled, the clothes spinning near her knees. The water sloshed bubbles onto the front glass.

“Rosalind covers for you and you still think I don’t check.” 

Matthew swallowed. He faced the heat and rage of John a hundred times before. This was new. This was terrifying. This was his mother, cold and resolute, like a marble statue. The same woman who put race-car band aids across his scratches, who helped him and Rosie build blanket forts, who hid Christmas presents over the house and says ‘it was the elves!’ 

She finally, finally faced him. “I’m not your enemy, Matthew. I’m your mother. I love you. Why do you always lie to me?” 

The clock ticked nosily overhead. He gave a mute shrug.

She shook her head, blonde tendrils of hair escaping from the hair clip, “My goodness - will you just be careful, Matthew. You’re my baby boy. At least call me so I know you’re alright.”

He recoiled at that, “I’m not a baby.”

“No. You’re a teenager. But you are still my son. Please, just,” She sighed, and rubbed her fingertips along the bottom of her eyes. “Can you tell me honestly where you were today?”

He could see the naked fear in her eyes. Her assumptions of the worst; That he was off snorting cocaine, or having an orgy of unprotected sex, or stealing money from homeless people. 

Telling Barbara would mean John would know. And John never liked Oscar. He always gave him dirty looks during neighborhood gatherings. 

Matthew didn’t want to add to the reasons John hated him.

So, he settled for a half-truth.

“I got a job.” He shook the crumbs of the potato chip bag into his palm and ate them. “It’s just like day laboring. We fix up houses.” 

Her features smoothed and the warm light returned to her blue eyes. “Oh, Matthew, that’s wonderful!” He could hear the relief in her voice. She circled the kitchen island and hugged him around the shoulders, her cheek pressing against his hair. 

She smelled like fabric softener. 

“I’ll make a lunch for you. What time do you need to be there? I can drive you.”

“Um…” He watched her bustle about the kitchen, her mood instantly restored. She was Mom again. “I dunno what time, it’ll be fine…”

“No, no, nonsense. I’ll put something in the fridge for you, just in case.

* * *

(ii)  
  
 _I should have known you’d destroy it,_  
pull it up by the roots and toss it into flames -  
damn you, fuck you - you beast, you monster  
you’re so easy to hate . 

Matthew spent nearly 3 weeks working with Oscar. They developed a routine. A wordless agreement between them that it would be better if Barb and John didn’t know who Matthew worked with. 

He would wake up early. He’d walk to Oscar’s house. They’d get breakfast. Sometimes, they’d pick up Oscar’s friends to help if it was a bigger project. At the end of the day, Oscar would drop him off at the gas station at the end of the road. 

Rosie was the only one who knew.

The only person Matthew trusted enough to tell.

“He’s mom’s best friend. I dunno why you don’t just tell her.” She said, painting her toenails a bright pink. 

“John hates him.” He answered, shoving his clean clothes into his dresser. 

“You ever wonder why?” Rosie looked up, her chin resting on her knee, dark hair flopping from the messy up-do bun she had thrown it in.

“Yeah,” Matthew bit the inside of his cheek. “I have some ideas.”

They didn’t discuss it again.

* * *

He started watching Oscar closely. His mannerisms. The way he spoke. The curve of his smile, the squint of his eyes, the furrow in his brows. All of it was cataloged and analyzed by the young man. There was a nagging feeling in his gut.

Scary, known and unknown at once, a suspicion that kept him awake at night and flipping through his biology notes. 

And always, the argument on that fateful night that drew Matthew from the house. 

_“I wish you weren’t my dad!” Matthew had yelled, face red with rage, fists curled, body coiled and ready to spring.  
_

_John had shook him - grabbed him by the collar and shouted into his face; “I raised you!” He bellowed, “Now get upstairs before I disown you, boy!”_

Matthew stared at the family photos in the hallway upstairs. John, brown hair, hazel eyes ; Wesley was the same. Barbara, blonde hair, blue eyes; Phillip’s hair had been the exact same shade as their mother’s as a child and only darkened as he got older. He and Rosie stood out, even when they were just babies. Their hair was black and curly. 

He flipped through the old photo albums in the living room while everyone was asleep.

He looked at his grandfather Samuel and grandmother Diana. He couldn’t tell his grandfather Samuel’s hair color, since he had gone grey early. He looked at his aunts on his mother’s side. He looked at his father’s brother, Patrick, in the few photos they had. 

Matthew scrubbed his hands over his face.

Was all this ‘ _research_ ’ even worth it? He wasn’t some genetics expert. What did it even matter? Would knowing even change anything? He shoved the photo albums back into the cabinet and vowed to never look at them again.

* * *

“How come you never got married?” Matthew asked, as they were taking a break from painting the kitchen.

“Hm?” Oscar hauled the paint can from the truck bed to the house. “Oh. Marriage? Never really interested me.”

“Why not? You have so many sisters, all of which you said are happily married, and you said you love your nieces and nephews but you don’t have any kids of your own.” He pressed. Matthew felt as if he was digging at an old wound. Painful. Deeply embedded into his psyche. 

Oscar rubbed his jaw and sighed, “There was one…time…but it wasn’t meant to be.”

“Cryptic much. What does _that_ mean?”

“Come on, Matt - you don’t wanna know the regrets of an old man.” Oscar joked, that brilliant smile on his face. 

“So, you regret not getting married? Not having kids?”

Oscar narrowed his eyes at him. “Is everything okay?”

Matthew had the sudden feeling that Oscar knew what he was asking. _Truly_ knew the question that Matthew was too afraid himself to ask. The fear coursed through him. He shrugged and picked up his paintbrush again.

“Never mind, dude.”

The great thing about Oscar was that he never pushed or bullied Matthew into talking more than he wanted to. If a topic was done, it was done. They moved on. 

Matthew just wished he didn’t feel so disappointed.

* * *

He was halfway home when Rosie came running towards him. Her dark hair flowing in the wind, her face red, and she grabbing him by the shoulders. Her sneakers kicking up gravel and sand as she stopped. 

“Dad knows.” She blurted, chest heaving, “I swear I didn’t tell him. Matthew. I swear.”

“About what?” Matthew had to ask - he kept so many secrets from his parents. 

“About Oscar. He’s livid. Mom is still at the store. You should wait till she gets home.”

Matthew shrugged away his sister’s hands. “No, fuck that. I’m not hiding behind mom.”

“It’s not hiding!” Rosalind walked briskly beside him to keep up. Tall as she was for her age, it was hard to match the hormonal rage of a teenage boy. “It’s called being smart, Matthew! Being pragmatic!”

“That was never my strong suit, Sis.”

“Matthew!” Her voice hitched. “Be sensible!” 

He was too angry to listen. Angry at John, for always hating him and treating him like a mistake. Angry at Barbara, for always being the diplomat and salvaging the pieces of the family when Matthew and John blew it up. Even angry at Oscar - the moment had passed and the question in his gut remained unanswered. 

Angry at himself for being a coward. 

The anger simmered and fizzed beneath his skin. He stopped bullying in school, but that wouldn’t mean he’d stop being a bully to John. That’s how you fought bullies. You _became_ a bigger one. 

* * *

He entered the house and he felt a tunnel vision come over him. A singular focus. The combined rage of a father who didn’t - or couldn’t - love him and the son - too young, too rebellious, and feeling too much.

Rosalind tried to intervene more than once. Her shrill yelling cutting through John’s booming, forceful voice and Matthew’s rough scream. Matthew lost track of time. 

He felt as if he was seeing the scene play out while outside of his body, looking down at his father screaming, watching his sister holding onto John’s arm, keeping him from striking or shoving Matthew. 

Insults and cruses exchanged like blows.

Accusations rained down.

There’s an art to fighting with words. John was loud, but Matthew was clever. He knew what to say and how it would cut the deepest. If each man held a sword, they would have left the living room drenched in blood.

He watched his mother enter the house, setting groceries in the hallway. He watched her position her body between John’s and Matthew’s. He watched her snap her fingers in John’s face. 

John left the room, surly and scowling, but not without the promise that this wasn’t over. That Matthew would have _consequences_. 

Matthew watched Rosie fall forward and envelope him in a tight hug. It felt distorted. Unreal. Maybe it wasn’t even happening?

Did he get hit by a truck or something while walking home? 

* * *

Matthew sat up in his bed. He looked down at his hands, making a fist and then releasing it, and then looked around at the peach colored walls. Peach? The world tilted and then came into sharp focus.

This was Rosie’s room.

“Hey, you feeling ok?” He looked over, seeing Rosie curled next to him, lying on top of the floral printed covers. 

“Sort of.” Matthew laid back down. “What happened? I don’t…totally remember.”

“We came upstairs and listened to music while Mom and Dad had a big fight downstairs. You fell asleep at some point. You were pretty dazed.”

“Am I grounded?”

“No.”

“Am I disowned?”

“If they disown you, they disown me, too. We’re a package deal.” 

“I don’t think John is…” He stopped himself, staring into his sister’s face, the puffiness around her eyes. His gut twisted. 

“You don’t think he’s…?” 

“Very good at being a dad.” He finished his sentence. A mocking voice in the back of his head whispered; _coward, coward, coward._

A few tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, “He used to be better. I _remember_.”

Matthew took her cold hand in between his and squeezed, “I know. I know.” He lied. 

Matthew couldn’t remember any moments of John caring for him, or holding him, or even saying _‘I love you’._

For Rosie, he’d lie.

He could shoulder this burden alone.

“Your music taste is terrible, by the way.”

She laughed, “Hey, fuck you.”

“Seriously, what is this?! Kelly Clarkson?”

“Yes it is! She won American Idol, you dick!” 

* * *

Downstairs, Barbara made a watery-voiced phone call to her cherised, closest friend. She cradled the phone to her cheek and pressed the tissue to her nose. Her shoulder leaning against the wall for support. 

John’s truck pulled away from the driveway.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry - I don’t know how he found out, but he’s threatening - god who knows what now - divorce, disowning the children, kicking us out of the house…” 

_“This is all my fault - shit - Barbara - is he okay? Is Matthew alright?”_

“He will be. It’s not your fault -”

_“Yes, it is - I invited him -”_

“Yes, yes, I know, but you told me about it and I _allowed_ it. I didn’t think John would care. He’d been talking about Matthew getting a summer job…”

_“God, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do. How can I make it right? Please, Barb, don’t let him punish the kids just because I was selfish…Matt always reminded me of myself at that age. I wanted to…I wanted to help.”_

“I know, I know, hush. I know, darling. I hate saying this, you know I do, but even after all these years John seems to believe you’re threatening him and our family. He’s…mistrustful.”

_“We hardly see each other anymore.”_

“And now we must see each other even less. You must stay away from Rosie and Matt.”

The line was silent, but she could hear his breathing. Her throat went tight and a soft sob escaped. It felt as if her heart was torn in two. Love for her children. Love for Oscar.

_“I love you.”_

Oscar always said it like that; blunt, confident. As if he were declaring a fact known by the universe. The earth is round. I love you. The sky is blue. I love you. 

Barbara blew her nose into the the tissue. 

“ _I will be here, always, if you - or Rosalind - or Matthew - ever need me.”_

“I know.”

She hung up and stared at the dark kitchen. The faucet dripping water. Her ghosted reflection staring back at her from the window above the sink.


	14. Barbara I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The trouble is you can shut your eyes but you can’t shut your mind.” - Terry Pratchett ;;   
> a woman's heart is as deep as the ocean - with many secrets

They were having an Indian summer. Despite it being late September, the heat still clung to the air, to the pavements, threatening to suffocate her. Her home was large and spacious and hard to keep cool. She felt… **lonely**. Even with the chickens in the yard, and the dogs, and her close-knit circle of friends and the church community. 

Her children had long since moved out and created lives of their own. One happily married, another inspiring minds in New York, and another a business owner. She’s not sure what Matthew is up to. 

Barbara watered the garden and wondered how long she’s felt this way. 

Her mind tumults backwards, into the deep blue depths of her most cherished and secret memories. 

* * *

They had a fight - she and John. This was not uncommon. John still resisted in Barbara’s desire to become a nurse. They fought over her dreams. It felt unfair. Why could he have a career and she could not? Why could he come home late, but she couldn’t take a day off from motherhood to see her friends? And would it kill him to change a diaper??! 

John simply didn’t believe in nannies or babysitters. He had sugar coated the words; “I trust no one else to take care of our children!”

Barbara waited until her husband was asleep, snoring softly, and she slipped from the covers. The cold night air bit at her skin. 

She grabbed at her house robe in the dark, the thin fabric worn and comforting, and she cinches it tight around her waist. The grass tickled her ankles as she trekked across the lawn. 

The heavy oak door swings open, revealing Oscar in all his rumpled beauty. His eyes are sleepy and they regard her with only warmth.

“Hey…?” 

Barbara lurched forward, arms wrapping around his muscled chest, and her eyes fill with tears. Oscar, to his credit, does not say anything. He returned her hug and pulled her into the warmth of his home.

The rough callous of his thumb brushed away her tears, “Perhaps he’ll come around. Once the kids are older?” He suggested, after listening to Barbara cry her heart out, all her tiny frustrations and large ones. 

“You know John.” Barbara blew her nose, “I feel trapped, Oscar. I cannot be anything else other than the mother of his children. He won’t let me be anything else.” 

She chose John. He was always there to provide for her and the children. But, she did not just want a bank account or a roof over her head. She wanted a partner. A friend. A lover. An _equal_.

Barbara grabbed Oscar’s face between her hands and kissed him. The kiss was just as she remembered, only this time it was _she_ who was in control. Her heart beat furiously against her chest. 

He pulled away, “Darling, not here, not - not now.” 

“Yes, now. Here.”

“You’re all torn up.” Oscar said and she wanted to damn his reasoning. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I know what I’m doing.” She sniffed, her blue eyes red-rimmed and defiant. 

“I won’t be used as a… _weapon_ …against your husband.” Oscar said, his voice small, and hurt.

“No…God. no..”

“Then wait.” He held her face in his hands, “Figure out your heart first, my dove. Then return when you’re not filled with pain.”

* * *

Oscar became a beacon of light beside her children. 

Even when John came home, angry at the day, at the world, for all it’s unfairness. 

_“My uncle refused to sell the garage. Again!”_

_“I have to work this weekend.”_

_“The Eagles lost!”_

Of course, she wasn’t completely miserable. There were still moments where she saw the man she married and fell for on the rain-dampened, cobbled streets of Boston. She saw when he worked in his wood shop. She saw it when he held one of their children. Sometimes, even, when he looked at her.

John seemed to have no doubts.

He had no doubts about his career, despite Barbara seeing that he appeared happier outdoors and working on projects with wood - not cars. He had no doubts about their marriage, no doubts that he chose the right person to marry. No doubts about their children, and that they’d grow to be smart and strong and successful.

His lack of doubts made her own feel silly and insignificant. 

Oscar suggested she voiced her doubts to her husband. Told her communication was important - above all else - and that she shouldn’t lessen her feelings.

“Don’t smother your own fire for the sake of someone else.” Oscar said, over the phone, in one of their little weekly calls. “Shine bright and beautiful. You’re a star, Barbara. Don’t convince yourself that you’re a house lamp.”

She laughed at that.

And she took his suggestion to heart.

But, the conversation did not go as she hoped.

“You just seem so _sure_ of things!” Barbara wrung her hands together, blowing out a frustrated sigh.

“Of course I am.” John shook his head, “I know who I am and what I want. It’s not hard.”

“Really? You want to be a mechanic forever?”

“I’m good at it.”

“But does it make you _**happy**_?!”

“Jesus, Barb!” John snapped, “That doesn’t matter! It’s a good job. It makes good money. And someday, I’ll own the place, and I’ll leave it to Phillip, and he’ll have it for his children.” 

“What if Phillip doesn’t want the garage?!”

“That’s too bad. It’s his birthright.”

“Birthright?” Barbara snorted a laugh, “This isn’t the 1800s!”

“It’s his. End of discussion. What is going on with you?”

Barbara bit down on her lip to stop from shouting out. From telling him the truth: that she was a bird in a cage and desperate to be free. That she was a brilliant and beautiful star, and he - perhaps unknowingly - had stifled her fire.

* * *

Her hair billowed out across the silken sheets and she sleepily looked up, hearing soft music filter through her dreams.

 _The world was on fire and no one could save me but you._  
It’s strange what desire will make foolish people do.  
I never dreamed that I’d love somebody like you.  
And I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you

Oscar slid back into bed and she curled into his side. He smelled like clean soap and oil-pant and home. 

_No, I wanna fall in love (this girl is only gonna break your heart)  
No, I wanna fall in love (this girl is only gonna break your heart)_

“I can’t believe you let me fall asleep.” Barbara complained, draping an arm over his stomach. 

“You needed a nap.”

“What did you do while I slept?”

“Painted. Did you have nice dreams?”

Barbara shut her eyes, and for a fleeting, selfish moment - she imagined that he was her husband. That not only Matthew and Rosie were his children, but Phillip and Wesley as well. That she came home to a man who listened to her, who laughed with her, and helped her go back to school. They wouldn’t have a big, fancy house or expensive cars. But, they would have each other and that would be enough.

God forgive her - she was a terrible, awful woman - wasn’t she?

 _No, I don’t want to fall in love (this girl is only gonna break your heart)_  
With you, with you (this girl is only gonna break your heart)  
  


* * *

**[Present Day]**

Barbara signed the paperwork and left it on the kitchen table. When she came downstairs, she found John.

And she found an argument waiting to happen.

“What is _**this**_?!”

“Agreements of separation.” She found the steel in her voice and held it.

“You’re Catholic.”

“Catholics deserve to be happy, too.”

“I’ve given you everything!” He slammed his palm on his table, “Everything! Blood, sweat, and tears!”

“And I never asked you to!” She shot back, ears turning red. “I never asked you to buy your Uncles’ garage, or this house, or any of it! You never asked my opinion on _**any**_ of it! And now what do I have?! My children have all moved out and I have an empty house!”

“Is this about the damn therapy again!?”

“You wouldn’t allow Matthew to go to therapy and wouldn’t go to therapy for our marriage. No, John, we’re _**past**_ therapy.” 

“I’m not signing this.” John flipped the folder shut.

Barbara sniffed, setting her jaw, “You will. I’m going to stay with Phillip while you think.” 

“Is this about that spic Oscar?!” 

“This has nothing to do with him! My god, John! Other people aren’t to blame for our problems. For _**your**_ problems! And I swear to god if you dare say anything against him, I’ll forge your signature on those documents myself.”

The house door slammed in her retreat. 

She was finally on her own path now. 


	15. Phillip IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: ptsd (?) / phillip has shadows in his mind

_if the ocean can calm itself so can you.  
we are both salt water mixed with air. _

  
phillip looks down at his hands and catches them shaking. he curls them into fists. his nails bite into his skin. 

the fan in the corner of his room rotates and raises goose-flesh on his hot skin. 

he hears the bomb whistle through the air and he drops, his knees slam into the hardwood. he covers his head, protective, heartbeat loud in his ears and he sucks in air like he’s drowning. 

he doesn’t get up until the early morning birds start to sing. his muscles protest, they’re cramped and strained. he doesn’t listen to them. he yanks his damp t-shirt over his head and heads to the shower.

he scrubs his skin but he still feels the sand, the grime, the blood. it’s stuck under his fingernails and behind his ears and in his throat. phillip covers his face with his hands and squeezes his eyes shut.

the water pouring down his back drowns out the sounds of gunfire in his head.

* * *

barbara invites him to the annual fourth of july cookout. 

he declines. says he’s sick. 

he gets into his car and drives. as far up north as he can - reaching vermont.

he sits on the porch of the cabin he’s rented, his entire body tense and waiting - waiting…waiting for what…exactly?

he doesn’t know. not entirely. it’s a working theory he has about sound. the airplanes overhead. a car backfiring. 

fourth of july is a nightmare of sound.

he sees the fireworks light up before he hears them. he knows it’s fireworks. he knows that - _logically_ \- he just saw them across the valley. but, he’s on his stomach and crawling back into the house.

he slams the door shut and covers his ears with his hands. he can feel the ground trembling beneath him. tears pinprick against the back of his eyelids.

* * *

phillip is running. his body weighed down by his gear. the streets narrow, dusty, and they press into him. he looks down, finding his hands empty - where was his gun? 

anger coils in his stomach. fireworks explode overhead, lighting up the sky in pink, and green, and yellow, and blue, and he yells. he yells and yells until his throat is raw.

phillip jerks upwards, chest and forehead slick with sweat, and his hand is already around the gun on his nightstand. 

his heart hammers beneath his ribs. he can’t breathe. _fuck_. his lungs hiccup, desperate, eager for air but he can’t do it. he _can’t_ breathe. his hands curl into the sheets and his chest heaves rapidly. 

_focus. god. focus._ if he doesn’t, there’s a chance he might pass out. _focus! focus!_ phillip shuts his mouth and breathes through his nose. 

it helps. 

he cradles his head in his hands once the moment of terror passes.

* * *

on the third day of his trip in vermont, he gets a phone call.

“hey, didn’t see you over the weekend. ma said you were sick?” wesley’s voice comes through a little broken from poor cell reception. 

“uuh..yeah..” phillip passes his card to the cashier, a week’s worth of groceries in his cart. “stomach bug, i think.”

“eugh. yikes.” 

he mouths a ‘thank you’ to the cashier and pushes his cart outside, “was there something you needed?”

“huh? oh, nah. just checking in.”

phillip sighs, unlocking his car, “thanks - i appreciate that.” 

“alright well, if you’re ever in new york….” wesley offers, but doesn’t finish his sentence. a weight of silence between the two brothers.

“yeah, ‘course. thanks.”

“take care of yourself, phillip.”

“you too.”

* * *

phillip stares at his reflection. doesn’t recognize himself. his beard is unruly. his eyes are bloodshot. he’s functioning on less than 3 hours of sleep a night. he…has no idea what to do.

he thought being away might fix it. away from the noise of the city. away from the stress. away from concerned friends and family. just some time to get his head on straight.

it’s not working. 

phillip rubs the shaving cream along his jaw and turns on the faucet.

he can’t stay up here forever. he knows that. but what is he returning to? 

_**fear**_.

that’s what it is. he’s _afraid_. jumping at shadows and noises. haunted by a life already lived. he taps the razor against the sink and washes away the hair before tilting his head, shaving another section. 

* * *

“how long you gonna be a mountain man for?” she asks, drumming her pencil against her desk.

“you tracked my phone?”

“you’re an employee with the government. don’t sound so surprised.” morgan sighs, “we could really use your help, mcallister.”

“i don’t know…” phillip sniffs, watching a squirrel dart around a tree trunk. “…i think i’d be a liability, morgan.”

“look, whatever it is…whatever you’re going through….you’re not the only vet on the team, ya know? just come back and we can figure it out.” 

the line is quiet.

“mcallister?”

“okay…” phillip shuts his eyes, “alright. i’ll come back. i’ll see you monday. i just uh…i should shave.”

“yeah, the rugged look isn’t really for you.” 

“do you have me on satellite imaging now, too?” 

“see ya monday!”

* * *

phillip bounces his knee, both hands in his lap. 

the door finally opens. “hello mr. mcallister. i’m doctor buckland.” 


	16. Blackbird II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt; a memory your character cannot forget // rosalind & wesley

**[Wesley]**

Wesley collapsed onto the couch when he got back to their tiny shared apartment. Sarah, mousy and beautiful, slid next to him and tucked her head under his chin. He ran his fingers through her thick, dark hair, and told her about his day.  
  
It was in these small, perfect, tiny, beautiful moments that Wesley realized how lucky he was. He was going to school to pursue a career he was really passionate about, he came home to a beautiful woman who he loved and would someday marry, and he was healthy and whole.  
  
“I have something to tell you.” Sarah sat up slightly, her elbow digging slightly into his ribs. His green eyes met her brown ones. The look she wore on her pretty face wasn’t one he’s seen before. They’d been together for two years…Wesley thought he knew all her expressions. Happy, sad, angry…but this one was new. It worried him. It scared him.  
  
“What’s wrong, babe?” He reached up, cradling the side of her face.   
  
“Okay well…I went to the doctor’s and I’m pregnant.” His heart flipped in his chest and the rest of her words came out in a rush; “And I know you want kids, Wesley. And I want them too just…not right now.”  
  
He exhaled. The quick moment of hope and joy that he felt at starting a family with her was crushed. Her big, doe eyes filled with tears and he quickly kissed her.   
  
“It’s okay, love. It’s okay.” Wesley whispered, holding her face tenderly between his hands.   
  
“I support you. I’ll always be there for you. It’s okay, don’t cry…hush…” The wetness of her tears stuck to his cheeks, but he kissed her until he felt her relax against him.  
  
He was hurt that she didn’t talk to him about what he wanted but, in the end, did it really matter? It was her choice. Maybe it was better this way. She found out and made a choice that was right for her…without his influence. 

  
“We’ll have a family together someday, Wesley.” Sarah promised him - and in that moment - he believed her. 

  
  
**[Rosalind]**

Rosalind had trouble understand the concept of death. One moment someone was there, alive, and then in the next moment - gone. Nothingness. Her family was so much better at handling this sort of thing.   
  
Phillip looked stoic, dressed all in black, with his tiny wife holding his arm. He didn't’ smile - but that was pretty normal. He gave curt nods and shook hands. Rosalind realized suddenly that her older brother has been to more funerals than she has. He’s _used_ to it. Her heart broke a little bit for him.   
  
Matthew was cracking jokes - managing to make other people smile - despite the red rims around their eyes. His suit was rumpled, probably the only suit he owned. Their mother came up to straighten his tie.   
  
Rosalind searched the crowd for her bear of a father and found him standing by the casket. His brown beard had started to go grey. He was bulky and intimidating to most people, but when Rosalind caught his eye, he gave her the smallest of smiles. She felt her older brother, Wesley, gravitate to her side.  
  
“You ready?” He offered his arm.  
  
Her legs felt wobbly, but she jutted her chin forward and leaned on her big brother for support. The man in the casket looked nothing like her Grandpa. He looked waxy and fake and the smile lines around his mouth weren’t as pronounced as they had been in life. Seeing a dead person was supposed to give closure. Or, that’s what she assumed.  
  
Where was the man who sneaked them treats and yelled at the television? Where was the man who dressed up like Santa when she was a kid? Who lifted her onto his shoulders and strolled around the farm, just so she could see what the giraffes see? This man before her was not her grandpa.   
  
Rosalind looked over at her father. A shard of ice pierced her heart. Someday, she would be standing there, and her father lying in the pillowed case. Rosie gripped onto her brother’s arm tightly. She bit back her tears, forced the tightness away from her throat, and lightly touched the coffin’s surface.   
  
“semper fidelis, Grandpa.” Her voice was faint, but she figured he must have heard her, up in heaven. 


	17. Siblings III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> matthew, rosalind, and wesley ;; we are in this together or not at all

( august 20 2004 )

Wesley rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles sore from straining over this desk, re-writing the draft for his ‘Child Development’ paper. The library was quieter than normal, with it being past midnight and all. His phone was set to silent. His girlfriend, Sarah, would be asleep. She - if he remembered correctly - had a test in the morning for her Psych 101 class.   
  
He leaned back in the wooden chair, lacing his hands behind his head, giving himself a minute to think without the words in front of his nose.  
  
“Wesley!” He turned, surprised by the voice, and the dark haired woman striding into the library.  
  
“R…Rosie?”

  
“Duh-oy.” His little sister, a sophomore in high school, and living 30 minutes away from his college campus. To say seeing her was a surprise would be an understatement. She was wearing her pajamas.   
  
“Isn’t it a school night?! How did you get here?”  
  
“I drove.”  
  
“You don’t have your license.”   
  
Rosalind shrugged, “I drove the speed limit.”   
  
Wesley stood, eyeing his little sister in the florescent light of the library. She put on a brave face, but something was up. His family didn’t just ‘drop in’. He rose both eyebrows, expectantly, at Rosalind.   
  
“Jeez.” She huffed, tucking her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt. “Just…ugh…follow me.”   
  
He didn’t really have a choice. Wesley followed Rosalind out into the brisk late September air. Their father’s truck was parked crookedly in a handicapped spot. No one was in the driver’s seat. Wesley heard Rosie curse and then quicken her pace, yanking open the passenger side door.  
  
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!”   
  
Wesley came around, seeing his brother, Matthew, with his head on the dashboard. Panic suddenly hit him straight in the chest. Rosalind propped Matthew upright and pressed her fingers against his throat. Wesley could see a dark smudge below his brother’s nose.   
  
“Well, he’s _alive_.”   
  
“Rosie, tell me what’s going on. Right. Now.”  
  
Rosalind sighed, and then, pressed the heels of her palms against her green eyes. Wesley could see the way her lips kept tugging down, but she fought back the tears, and clenched her fists at her sides.  
  
“Mom and Dad were asleep and Phillip is in fucking boot camp and - Matty said he was going to this party or whatever. He told me to come get him if he wasn’t back by eleven. So, I did. I found him on the lawn of his friend’s house. I figured he was just drunk or stoned, but, he was acting really _weird_ …” Her voice wavered, “ He…sort of just fainted…while we were getting into the truck…and then I found this in his pocket.”  
  
She reached past Matthew’s legs, opening the glove compartment, the little light inside illuminating a small plastic baggy of white powder.  
  
Wesley never swore. This time - however - was an exception. “Fuck.”  
  
He didn’t take a minute to analyze why Rose brought him here, instead of calling an ambulance, or getting their parents. She was sixteen. She was scared.  
  
“He was awake when I parked, I swear.” A tear escaped and Rosalind furiously wiped it from her face with the sleeve of his sweater. “Wes, is he gonna die?”  
  
“No, no, Rosalind - no - look, we need to take him to a hospital, okay? We don’t know what he’s taken.”  
  
Rosie grabbed his sleeve, “No! He’ll be in so much trouble!”  
  
“Rosalind, he’ll be in trouble if we do _nothing_. Give me the keys.”   
  
That night marked the longest in his entire life. Rosie paced the waiting room, chewing on the strings of her sweater, and asking Wesley questions he didn’t have the answers to. He sat with his head bowed, the thought that - quite possibly - his little brother might be dead or dying in the next room.   
  
He stared at the white linoleum, clasped his hands together and prayed.

Wesley stayed with Rosalind until his parents arrived, needing to borrow a car from a friend, since Rosie had taken the only vehicle they owned. By then, it was almost three am, and the doctor said they’d be holding Matthew for twenty four hours. But, he’d be alright. He was lucky, the said. Could have been worse. He had alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine in his system. They recommended a doctor for Matthew to see.  
  
“He’s sixteen! He doesn’t need to see a shrink.” Their father said, his voice naturally booming over the sounds in the hospital.   
  
“He just needs some time away from those awful friends of his.” Their mother chimed in, wringing her hands together. “I said they were bad eggs, didn’t I, John? The second I saw that one with the tattoo - I said it.”   
  
When he left the hospital, he didn’t tell Rosie what he had taken from the truck and slid in his pocket. He dumped it into the first trashcan outside and poured his bitter coffee over it. 


	18. Rosalind I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> someday...someday ; rosalind

Rosie holds back tears every time she sees her niece and nephews. Ren always comes barreling into the house, holding up something for Rosie to examine (a rock, a new toy, something his father brought back from overseas - name it.) Junior follows, much quieter, and helps himself to a snack from the table. 

And then Ambrosia walks in holding the baby, Diane, and that’s when Rosalind’s heart strings tug the most.

“Thank you so much for watching them.” Ambrosia passes the toddler over. 

“Of course - you know I love having them here.” The baby is a heavy, welcome, and wonderful weight in her arms. Rosie bounces her, gently.

Ambrosia sets the overnight bag near the stairs, kissing the top of her daughters’ head. “We’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

The car horn outside beeps and she laughs, “Bloody impatient bastard. Oops. Kids you didn’t hear that!”

“Didn’t hear it!” Are Junior’s and Jame's automatic replies. 

“Anyway, Phillip and I will have our phones - you know the drill. Thank you, again. Boys!!” Ambrosia kisses Rosie’s cheek and she’s gone.   
  
Diane tugs at Rosie’s collar, “Down! Down!”   
  
Rosalind sets the toddler down and bites her lip. It’s all she can do to stop herself. Diane busies herself with a toy, her dark hair in tiny pigtails on top of her head, her blue eyes - like her father’s - are bright and clear and full of wonder. 

She can’t stop herself from imagining her own daughter sitting on this floor wearing a dress, laughing, playing - alive and whole and _real_. 

* * *

Rosalind is the first to volunteer at church. Especially for the bake sales. She’s crouching down, speaking to one of the younger children, when the mother approaches. 

“You’re so good with them. Do you have any children of your own?” The woman asks, supplying her two children with a cake pop bought from another table.

The words aren’t meant as a barb - but they feel like one. “No, not yet.” Rosalind answers, trying to ignore the sharp stinging in her chest. “Someday!”

“Ah,” The woman smiles, “It’ll happen when it’s time.” She says, as if she knows the secret to the universe and all it’s mysteries. 

Rosie just nods. 

* * *

Rosalind bites her nails as she sits in the doctor’s office. Every year she goes for her annual check up and every year (since she was 25) she’s terrified that the doctor is going to tell her it’s too late. _‘Sorry, kid - you have no eggs left’_ or something like that. It hasn’t happened - but it doesn’t stop her from freaking out in the waiting room.

Every time she brings it up, her OBGYN is always encouraging - ‘Rosie, plenty of women have children when they are thirty!’ and ‘Rosalind, the technology is different now. We have fertility treatments.’ and the last words of encouragement are always - ‘There’s still time, there’s still time’.

But, the doctor never tells her _**how much**_ time.

* * *

The home she lives in feels empty when she’s the only one there. She looks at the rooms that she designed for guests and imagines them as children’s rooms, as nurseries, and then she usually goes and sits at the kitchen table with some hot tea.

Some days are worse than others. Some days, she doesn’t even think about it. And then there are nights like these - where the house is empty and she feels empty, too.

All she ever wanted was a family to call her own. Her ring finger is bare, there’s no one sleeping in the bed next to her, and there’s no one down the hall to check up on. 

She wonders if her brothers ever feel this way or if it’s just _her_ thing. Her little broken piece of her heart that she doesn’t know how to fix on her own. Rosalind chokes back a small sob, fingers trembling as she brings the cup of tea to her lips and swallows. The warmth travels down her chest and hits her belly and it’s a small comfort. 

Rosalind takes another sip of tea and remembers her mother’s advice;

_“Someday, my little dove.” Her mother said, grasping her hand, and using an endearment from Rosie’s childhood. “Your father and I lost our first child. But then we had Phillip, and Wesley, and then I got two at the same time!” Barbara reached up and pinched her daughter’s cheek - making Rosie laugh. “Everything has it’s time. God has a plan for all of us.” Barbara squeezed her hand, the gold band of her wedding ring shining in the afternoon sun, “You must believe in tomorrow.”_


	19. Siblings IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bang! bang! ;; matthew & rosalind

Rosalind didn’t often visit Matthew’s favorite watering hole, the Bang Bang Bar, complete with a neon sign on the front and live music every Sunday night. But, after several texts from her dear brother saying: ‘L _ame ass, come out!!!_ ’, and ‘ _come thruuu rosieeee_ ’, and then - her favorite - ‘f _uq bern sanderz is here yoooooooooo_ ’ quickly followed up with: ‘ _NEVERMED HE PISED! he vot trump’_

Rosalind rolled out of her bed and stripped from her silken nightgown to slip on dark jeans and a shirt. She ran her fingers through her short hair and applied a quick layer of dark red matte lipstick. If she was going to go out and keep her brother from getting his ass kicked by not-Bernie-Sanders then she was going to look _nice_.

The front parking spots were all occupied by motorcycles, but she spotted Matthew’s big, piece of shit red truck and parked next to it. The bar was crowded, but she expected nothing less. 

She found Matthew knocking back shots and he hollered her name when she approached. 

“ _ **Finally**_! Aww look at you. You’re like a little baby.” Matthew, clearly three sheets to the wind, grabbed her cheeks and pinched them. Rosalind sharply punched his ribs and he backed off, laughing. 

“Everyone,” He gestured to the few gentlemen he was drinking with, “This is my sister. Rosalind.” 

There was a murmur of hellos and some nods. Rosalind didn’t bother to catch all their names. Matthew would circulate to another crowd before the night was through. 

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Matthew slammed both hands on the polished wooden bar, “Thank you, beautiful.” He said to the bartender, winking, and passing a shot to Rosalind. 

“To new friends!” He exclaimed and the shot glasses clinked together, liquor spilling on her fingers. 

* * *

It’s hard to say what happened - or _how_ it happened - but Rosalind saw her brother fall to the floor and lift his hands to block his face. She was on her feet in the next second, the crowd naturally parting and circling the two men to watch and clamor. 

“Hey! Get off of him, you piece of shit!” Rosalind didn’t pause - didn’t think - just saw the much-larger guy on top of Matthew laying fists into his face. Matthew was doing a bad job of keeping his hands up for defense. She kicked the attacker straight in the jaw.

There was a chorus of boos and cheers. Matthew grappled with the man, who was quite stunned by her blow, and rolled over - laying a hit of his own into the man’s nose. 

“Bitch!” Someone shouted before an arm went around her neck in a choke hold. She could only smell sweat and alcohol. Rosalind grunted, planted her feet, and struggled briefly before slamming her head backwards. There was the sickening crunch in her ears and his hold released. 

She glanced over at Matthew and her twin flashed her a bloodied red smile. 

That’s when all hell broke loose. 

The man who had grabbed her had recovered. His nose swollen and blood covering his chin. He launched a right hook at Rosalind, but she slipped to the side. His moves were sloppy. 

_He’s drunk._ The voice in her head reminded her of Phillip. _His coordination will be shitty, but that doesn’t mean it won’t hurt if you let him land one. Be quick._

She waited for him to try again and this time. Rosie grabbed his wrist and twisted it into a wrist lock. If he kept struggling, he’d end up tearing a ligament…or worse. Rosalind took a second to look at Matthew again, keeping an eye on him, but the drunk idiot was knocked on the floor again - laughing and taunting - as he scrambled back to his feet and rushed his opponent. 

God, did he get all the insanity in the womb? 

Rosalind huffed and released the wrist lock. She pushed the man, hard, with her body weight and he stumbled back until he fell on his ass. She was quick to back off, quickly moving around the circumference of the fight-circle, and she grabbed a beer bottle from the bar.

She smashed it on the edge - another chorus of whoops and hollers - she wasn’t _actually_ going to use it. But, this had gone on long enough and one of Matthews’ eyes was swollen.

“Let my brother go, _**now**_.” Rosie demanded, the bottle’s edge at the man’s throat, as he held her brother by the collar. 

“ _Niiiiiice_.” Matthew groaned, bloody spit dribbling down his lip. 

“You let this cunt fight your battles for you?” The man directed the question towards Matthew, mockery in his yellowed grin. He made no moves to release Matthew.

Matthew and Rosalind shared a look: _wow, this guy is really dumb._

“Listen, buck-o, you can either let him go and we all leave or this cunt is going to _gut_ you like the fucking pig you are.”

Rosalind wished she had a camera in that moment to capture her brothers’ expression. He looked _absolutely_ stunned. It made her grin. She nudged the glass closer, not enough to bite the skin, of course, since she was just bluffing. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking insane.” He released Matthew, “Both of you. Fucking nutjobs.”

“We’re related!” Matthew announced proudly, slinging an arm over Rosalind’s shoulders. 

* * *

Rosalind pressed the bag of frozen peas to Matthew’s swollen and black eye. 

“So, what did you do?” She asked, pulling off her shirt and tossing it into the washing machine. She extended her hand and Matthew shrugged off his flannel, splattered with blood, over to her. 

“That was a biker gang we got into a fight with…because…I _might_ have fucked one of their girlfriends.”

“What, you can’t remember?!” 

“I can’t remember what gang she said her boyfriend was in. I was just checking shit out! I definitely fucked a biker’ dudes girl.”

Rosalind sighed, shaking her head, and setting the washing machine to hot. 

“You’re gonna get yourself killed, Matt.”

“Nah.” He scoffed, “I got you! You’re my bodyguard.”

Rosalind laughed, “Alright well, just lay off the fighting with gangs for a while, OK?”

“Alright, that’s fair.” 


	20. Rosalind II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a broken heart ; rosalind

( March 10, 2012 )

The men who worked with her father often thought of Rosie as a little sister or the daughter they never had. She’d come strolling into the shop, bringing lunch for her dad, making jokes, asking questions about the work they were doing. It’s amazing that she and Clayton ever got together. He was quiet, but that was because he liked to think about his words before he said them.   
  
He asked John, her father, if it would be a conflict if he dated Rosalind. John liked Clayton. Good worker, never showed up late, and so - naturally - he gave his blessing. They went on picnics, to the movies, to dinner and church on Sundays. Rosie fell for him. Hard.   
  
By the third year, everyone was waiting for Clayton to pop the question. But, as fate would have it, he got a once-in-a-lifetime chance at a job down in Texas. They argued - Clayton wanted her to come with him, Rosalind refused to abandon her family. Ultimately, they settled for long distance.  
  
It was hard. Phone calls got shorter and shorter. Visits were primarily made of sex and take-out. After he’d finish, he’d roll over to his side and Rosie would press her knuckles into her eyelids until the tears were punched back.   
  
They were two months away from their fifth anniversary when her plane landed in Dallas. Rosalind’s heart thudded loudly at the sight of him at the gate. Texas treated him well. His honeyed voice had a smooth drawl to it, his skin tanned from work and play out int he hot sun, his dark hair highlighted with gold. She bit her lip, trying to encourage herself that this was just a rough patch, and he loved her, and they’d make it through.   
  
“Hey lovebird.” He hugged her and alarm bells went off in her head. They always kissed upon reuniting. Not hugged. A weight settled on her chest.   
  
“Hey.”  
  
The silence was awkward and her heart began a new rhythm against her rib cage. She’s felt this before.   
  
“I didn’t want to say this over the phone.”  
  
“ _Clay_.” Her voice broke.  
  
“Rose, hon, I miss you like crazy. I want you to be here with me. I know you won’t leave your Ma and Pops. I don’t want you to choose between me and your family.”  
  
“You are my family.” Rosalind whispered, harshly, fighting back the tears. Embarrassment mingled with heartbreak. He couldn’t even have the decency to break up with her in private.He just wanted to get it over with and turn her around.  
  
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be. I’ll pay for the flight home.”  
  
“I’ll pay for my own goddamn flight. You - you - asshole! I _love_ you! You’re just giving up!”  
  
“Rose, look me in the eye and tell me you’re happy with our relationship. Tell me that you don’t feel us drifin’ apart. Tell me you’re happy. Because I’m not. I can’t do this anymore, hon.”  
  
“Then I guess you don’t have to.” Rosalind’s voice wobbled, sticking to her throat.   
  
Rosalind steeled every ounce her resolved and turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears leaving faint black streaks of mascara down her face. He might have called out to her, but her heartbeat was too loud in her ears. She dodged into the nearest bathroom and crumbled down once in the safety of the stall. Her forehead pressed up against her knees and the sobs escaped despite her best efforts. 


	21. Rosalind III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> home with you ; rosalind ft. hayden

Thanksgiving was always an outrageous event at the McAllister household and the fact that this was be her and Hayden’s first _serious_ holiday together as a couple. As a result, Rosalind’s stomach was in knots. Barbara, her mother, had decorated their home with fake leaves, pumpkins, and gourds. The guest rooms had all been set up. Football was primed on the TV - John was already in his chair. The home was rich with the aroma of a roasting turkey, some of the other sides tucked away in the fridge.   
  
Her father, John, could be intimidating and Phillip could be worse. Both men were stern faced and sarcastic. Yet, as Rosie helped her mother peel potatoes, her heart was light with hope.   
  
“Dad’s just mad ‘cause he didn’t catch the turkey himself.” Matthew said, strolling into the kitchen with Alma and John. Alma looked ready to bolt out the nearest door, but Rosie grabbed her by the arm and dragged her towards the sink, “Can you help? I really need to change before the kids show up.”  
  
The kids meaning Phillip’s children and the additional extended family who came by.   
  
“You’re not gonna ask me to stick my hand up the turkey’s ass, are you?” Alma responded dryly, and Barbara let out a whoop of laughter. 

The house was soon filled with laughing family members. Most of the men naturally gravitated to the family room, sipping soda or beer as they watched the game, and chatted during commercials. The women moved throughout the house, a few (Rosie, her mom, Alma, and Phillips wife, Yuri) stayed close to the kitchen to avoid disasters. The kids ran up and down the stairs, unable to decide where they wanted to wreck the most havoc.  
  
And Rosie tried not to bite her nails.  
  
He wasn’t that late. In fact, his mom had already showed up, but Hayden had gone to the airport to pick up his sisters.   
  
Matthew came into the kitchen and passed Alma his drink, before leaning down and whispering in her ear. Rosie averted her eyes and Barbara rolled hers.   
  
“Hey, Ma, I gotta run home for a sec. I - uh - forgot my good pants. Don’t eat any turkey without me.” Matt said, his hand lightly on Alma’s lower back as they left through the back door of the kitchen.  
  
“Huh.” Barbara said, taking a slow sip of her white wine, “I didn’t realize he owned any good pants.”  
  
Rosie looked at the clock and then at Yuri, who smiled sympathetically with the baby on her lap. 

“No, son, you’re wrong.” John said, steeling Phillip with a hard gaze. Phillip didn’t back down, he just sat up straighter and crossed his arms.

“No, I’m not.”

“The Lions did not win the Thanksgiving game last year!”

“Yes, they did!” John’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was enough to make everyone pause and stare at him. 

Rosie came into the living room, her blue dress with white polka-dots fluttering slightly with how quickly she breezed into the room. She passed her dad another beer, “Hey, guys - sounds like a fun conversation - however, dad - you _are_ wrong. Phillip, look it up on your phone and stop bitching. We’re eating in fifteen minutes.”

John grumbled in defeat and Rosie gave a thumbs up to her mother in the kitchen.

Most of the adults were seated at the table and the kids were at a smaller table in the family room. Rosie watched her dad carve the turkey and her heart was no longer light, it was heavy, and it settled in her gut.

Her texts to Hayden had gone unanswered and her calls had gone straight to voicemail. Her heart feared the worse - that something _happened_. She dreaded that the next knock on the door would be a police officer.

She look at the faces around the table.   
  
At Matthew, who’s hair looked _awful_ , but his smile whenever he looked over Alma was bright and warm.   
  
At Phillip, who held his wife’s hand on top of the table, their golden wedding bands glinting in the candlelight.   
  
At her grandma, tiny and birdlike, who was already helping herself to the green beans and glaring (much like John’s glare) at anyone who told her she should wait for the turkey to be served.   
  
At Hayden’s mother, who was talking amicably to Wesley, and her brother was nodding and smiling, with his silly brown tie with the autumnal leaves printed on it.

Then her eyes fell on the empty chair besides hers and the two empty ones next to his mother. 

**_DING-DONG-DING-DONG_ **

“I literally just sat down.” was the response from John, holding fork and knife in hand, and his brows furrowed. 

“I got it! I got it!” Rosie quickly jumped to her feet, nearly stumbling to reach the door. She yanked it open and a blast of cold hit her face and a shock of warmth hit the center of her chest.

“You made it!” She squealed, jumping forward, little snow flurries dancing around her and sneaking inside the house. His sisters scooted past them, their mother rising to her feet to greet them, Barbara close behind to help with taking their coats. 

“Rosie, I’m sorry - the flight was late and traffic was – _mmphff_ –”

Hayden was cut short when Rosie grabbed his face and kissed him. Her body shook from the cold, but she didn’t want to stop, his lips melding against hers. 

“I’m so happy, I’m so happy.” She whispered, pulling back and still holding his face.

“Um - hello to you, too and Happy Thanksgiving.” Hayden chuckled, their breath making little white puffs in the air. She pressed her forehead into his. 

“Close the goddamn door!” John yelled from inside the house and Hayden jumped a little, disentangling himself from Rosie, and ushering her into the house before he was castrated. 

“I’m really happy you’re here.” Rosalind whispered, pulling the scar (that Barbara had knitted) from around his neck. 

“Me too.” Hayden smiled and Rosie felt her stomach clench, all her bones going weak and rubbery, “Please tell me there’s food left?”

She laughed - “Yeah, c’mon, gimmie your coat.”

Rosie curled up beside Hayden in the guest bedroom, the roads too awful to try driving back to her home or his mother’s. The sheets smell of fabric softener and he’s warm and safe next to her. His hand was idly tracing circles on her back.

“Thank you.” Rosie whispered, well aware that there were many people in the house with full stomachs, sleeping soundly. 

A chuckle rumbled his chest, “For what?”

“For not eating the last slice of apple pie, obviously.” 

He snorted another laugh.

“No, thank you for coming. Thank you for…” She bit her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth, “for choosing me - uh - like - you could have chose not to come and -”

“Rosie– shh.” He kissed the top of her head. “The roads weren’t so bad when we drove here and I promised you and Mom that I wouldn’t miss it.”

Emotion clutched her chest and she buried her face into his t-shirt, blinking back the moisture in her eyes. 

“Still, thank you.”

He held a little closer, a little tighter, and Rosie could feel the fissures in her heart, the cracks made by broken promises, and thoughtless boyfriends, start to mend.


	22. Siblings V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> never leaving you behind ;; rosalind & matthew

“What are we going to do about Matthew?” John asked, hands pressed against the kitchen island.  
  
“ _Do_?” Barbara shook her head, peering at her husband from over the golden rims of her glasses. “John, he’s not an engine that needs fixing. He’s our son.”  
  
“He’s gonna get himself killed, Barb!” John’s voice raised, fist slamming on the wooden counter top. Barbara didn’t even flinch. She just put another spoonful of sugar into her tea.   
  
“Then, we do as the doctor said – “  
  
“No son of mine is going to a **_goddamn_** shrink!”   
  
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph -” Barbara threw her hands into the air, matching the level and tone of her husband. “We can’t do anything, John! He’s just a little rebellious. That’s how kids are at his age!”  
  
“I say let’s put him on a curfew. I’ll clean out his room. Hell, I’ll get a goddamn ankle bracelet if I have to.”  
  
“I won’t have my children feeling like their home is a prison!”   
  
“This ain’t about our children! It’s about just the one!”   
  
“Oh, come on!” They were shouting in earnest now, her tea cooling rapidly in front of her. “So, we treat Matthew like a prisoner while his sister can come and go as she pleases?!”   
  
“If that’s what it takes to teach that animal to have some respect- then - _yes_!”   
  
“This isn’t about respect, John!”  
  
“He’s got shitty friends, and no respect for the law, or others! I got half a mind to send him off to military school.”  
  
“No, John. No.”   
  
“Stop protecting him, Barbara! You’re coddling him. He’s gonna be seventeen this year!”   
  
Barbara clenched her eyes shut, tears pressing behind her eyelids. John huffed, clenching his fists, and shaking his head. The kitchen was tense and silent.   
  
Matthew and Rosalind sat at the top of the stairs, shoulder to shoulder, with their hands intertwined. Rosalind squeezed Matthew’s hand and he squeezed hers back. 


	23. Rosalind IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> before she seeks out the elder brother ;; rosalind

( august 20 2004 ) 

“If I’m not home by eleven, grab dad’s truck and come pick me up, alright?” Matthew said, standing in her bedroom door. Rosalind gave him a ‘look’. One that is supposed to look judgmental and icy. But, according to Matthew, she just looked like she was constipated.

“Stop with the face!” He laughed, “Do you have my back or not?”

Rosie sighed, “Yeah.” She tucked her hair behind her ears.

“You’re the best - love you!” Matthew left, quietly sneaking downstairs and leaving through the back door. Their parents passed out by nine. Wesley was in school and Phillip was down south at boot camp.

Without Matthew in the room beside hers, the house felt eerily quiet and empty. Rosie sighed again and put her headphones over her ears.

Rosalind pulled her hooded sweatshirt over her head. It was five past eleven and Matthew wasn’t home. She pulled her boots on, tucking her pajama legs into the sides, and grabbed her dad’s keys from the basket on the kitchen counter.

She winced as the truck started, rumbling lowly, and peered up through the windshield at her parent’s window. No lights. Okay. She was in the clear.

Rosie drove the speed limit, sometimes under, and made sure each stops she made were complete. It was unlikely that she’d run into a state trooper or even local authorities this late on a weeknight, but she couldn’t be too safe.

She heard the party before she saw it.

And her eyes zeroed in on her brother, standing on the front lawn, waving his arms about wildly. He was such an idiot.

Rosalind parked, ignoring the catcalls of drunk boys, and the leers of older men. Matthew jumped when he saw her, “Little sister!”

“Come on - you said eleven.”

“Wow! Look at you!” Matthew held up a strand of her hair, “You have the nicest hair. The nice. Hair. You got it. Wes, nice hair. The whole family, really. Phillip - where has he been!? God, wait! Fuck. Rosie? You met Hal? You gotta meet Hal -”

“Matt, no, come on.”

“Load of laughs, that guy. Whoah! Look at that one! Hey - I see you. Yeah. Yeah - yeah - yeah you ! Hahaha! Fuck off. I see you!” Matthew erupted into laughter, and Rosalind caught his face in the porch light. There was fresh blood under his nose.

“Matt!” She grabbed his chin with her hand, forcing him to face her. “Jesus, are you bleeding!?”

He roughly shoved her off. “Fuck no. I haven’t fought anyone…yet! Hahahah!” His laughter was erratic, like some cartoon hyena. “Phew, but yeah, you gotta meet everyone - come on - it will be super fun. Rooseeee.”

It was like someone had taken her brother and drained him through a coffee filter. He was all nervous energy, eyes flicking back and forth, hands gesturing expansively, and he kept sniffing and blinking his red and watered eyes.

“I mean - it’s great. isn’t it? so great. Hal, funny, you’d love him. Oh and fucking’ where is fucking what’s his fucking name shit - you know! The one with the goddamn he’s got like a glass eye, I swear to Christ - a glass fucking eye.”

“Matt - we need - “

“And then, just like that, it was so fast. Just - whew! Off he went, into the pool, yanno? And fucking, shit, fucking Bill was saying that we’d find his glass eye and I was like c’mon man, it didn’t just pop out of his freaking head! So, then I said —”

Matthew froze, eyes rolling back, and then - his body crumbled onto the ground.

“Ohmygod. Matthew!?” Rosalind dropped to her knees, lifting his eyelids, checking for some response. He was out cold. He was still breathing, thank god, but he wasn’t doing much else.

Terror brought the temperature of her blood down to below zero. Her hands trembled as she checked his pulse. The party went on around her. No one seemed to notice, or care, that Rosalind was sitting with her knees in the damp grass and her brother’s head in her lap. No one was going to help her.

“Okay.” She tugged the hair tie from her wrist and pulled the dark locks away from her face. “Let’s go, Matthew.”

She slung his arm over her shoulders and headed to the truck. She couldn’t bring him home like this. There was only one person she could rely on - that she could trust with something like…Matthew having some type of episode.

 _Wesley_.


	24. Phillip & Ambrosia I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> au: Lakehouse ; pairing: phillip x ambrosia   
> alt title: three times they almost kissed and the one time they did

**( one )**

The muggy heat clings to the middle of t-shirts and the backs of knees. Rosalind sits with her legs in the water, her dark hair swept up in a high ponytail. The sun warms her skin and pops freckles across her nose.

“Mom _looooves_ you.” She says and lifts one leg from the water to wiggle her toes. “And Matthew is going to a movie. So, it’ll be a girls night!”

Ambrosia fixes the brim of her large straw hat. The sunlight peeks through the woven pattern and casts tiny fragments of light across her face. Her blue eyes follow the gangly teenage boys as they leap from the dock and water glitters as it splashes upwards. She captures her lower lip between her teeth. Her fingers glide across the grass, tickling her skin, as she considers asking her follow-up question.

“What about Phillip?” Ambrosia peeks over at her friend.

Rosalind grins, the apples of her cheeks bright pink, “Ohh! Interesting that you ask about one brother and not the other.”

Ambrosia flicks grass at Rosie, decorating her legs in green confetti, “Wesley keeps to himself!”

Rosalind snorts, “And Phillip doesn’t?” She flops down onto her back, throwing her arms over her eyes to block the sun. “I dunno what he’s up to. Come over and find out!”

The girls pile into the living room with plenty of pillows and popcorn and snacks. Ambrosia sees Wesley once when he comes into the adjoining kitchen for a drink but, Phillip is a phantom. She considers asking Barbara if he’s around or if he drove to the theater in town with John and Matthew.

About half-way through their movie, a rolling boom of thunder rolls across the sky.

“Finally something to break up this heat.” Barbara says, getting up to open one of the windows. Ambrosia settles back down into the couch. Just a little thunder and lightning. Nothing to worry about.

Shortly after the first loud crack of lightening, the rain starts to pour down. It patters against the shingles and windowpanes. The air smells ozone-heavy and electric. A blissful, cool breeze slips through the window screens. Ambrosia sets aside her empty bowl and slips off the couch, “I’ll be right back. Don’t pause it! I’ve _seen_ this part.” It’s a playful jab at Rosie – who picked the movie and has seen it before. Twice.

She finishes washing her hands and is mid-drying them with a towel when the lights flicker. Her spine straightens. Was that her imagination? They flicker once more and then the bathroom is blanketed in darkness.

She hears Rosalind let out a yelp.

Ambrosia fumbles for the doorknob and yanks it open, stepping bodily into the hallway; “Oof!” Her hands grasp for something to catch onto, her nose presses into soft cotton and solid warmth. She clings to the shirt and is acutely, painfully, terrifically aware of the hand cupping the back of her neck and the other in the curve of her spine.

Even in darkness – she knows who it is.

Her heart jumps into her throat and flutters anxiously.

The thunder booms. She can hear Barbara and Rosalind moving cautiously along the hardwood. “No, we have some in the kitchen, Mom!” Rosie says, a _THUNK_ follows, “Ah – Shit! Sorry. Who moved this chair?!”

Her grip relaxes, fingers spreading out across the expanse of his chest and she feels his quick intake of breath. The thunder booms, louder this time, and she leans into him.

“You okay?” His voice is low, intimate, and makes her stomach flip.

“Yes…” She tilts her face upwards, eyes seeking his in the dark. His hand slides, feather-light, from the back of her neck to the side of her face. His breath fans across her lips. His heartbeat under her palm – is it beating faster than before? It must be.

“Found it!” Rosalind exclaims, the beam of light shining down the hallway. Phillip jerks back as if he’s been electrocuted. Ambrosia lets her hands drop to her sides and frowns. Impeccable timing, Rosie! Phillip is gone, striding down the hallway and leaving Ambrosia with her frustrated thoughts.

“Easy with that, Rosie. You’ll blind us if you’re not careful.”

Rosalind gives her older brother a sly look, but doesn’t say anything.

**( two )**

Phillip leans his head back in the rickety lawn chair. His red solo cup is filled with tepid beer and tilted precariously in his hand. There’s a handful of interesting places in the little lake house community. _This_ being one of them. The older kids would take the short hike up into the woods at night and have a bonfire, drink, hook up, and listen to music.

Phillip _knows_ the adults know. It’s just one of those things. Like, ‘it’s fine if you smoke in the house as long as it’s done under my roof’ type deals.

He takes another sip of beer and watches two guys arm wrestle using a cut down tree trunk as their base. He makes a mental bet on the one with the backwards 'Ford Automotive’ baseball cap. Phillip finishes his beer and puts another log on the camp fire.

He’s drunk before midnight and he’s swapped his lawn chair for a large plaid blanket on the ground with a pair of real hippie types, who explain the benefits of medicinal marijuana, while passing a blunt between them. They try passing it to him and Phillip turns it down each time.

“I have to pee.” The woman announces, her blonde hair tousled around her heart-shaped face. “Come with me, babe. I don’t wanna pee in the dark alone.” She grabs her boyfriend’s arm, “We’ll be back, Phil!”

He snorts a laugh and stretches out across the empty blanket. One of his feet knock an empty beer can and it clatters to its side. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches someone sitting down beside him and he sits up on his elbows.

“Am…Ambrosia?” She is all long legs and fiery hair with her polka dot dress. Phillip blinks at her. Is he dreaming? His eyes track her movements as she sweeps her hair from her face. No. He’s not dreaming.

“So!” She clasps her hands together, “This is where you disappear to!”

“I don’t _disappear_.” He replies, unable to tamper the smile that spreads across his face. She peers at him, her nose crinkling and he wants to kiss her. Good god, he wants to kiss her. Phillip ducks his head, burying it into the weed-smelling blanket. He groans.

“What’s wrong?” Her touch on his shoulder is light, but it feels like a white-hot brand.

“Nothing.” He lifts his head back up, finding her dangerously close to him. The firelight licks across her face and neck. It illuminates her hair to a bright red halo. 

His lips part, “Nothing.” He repeats, as his fingertips graze along the side of her arm. “How long have you been here?” He can’t imagine that he wouldn’t have seen her. Every time she walks into a room, he has to distract himself to stop from staring.

“Hmmm…” She tilts her head to the side and a red curl touches her cheek. “An hour?” She guesses with a shrug.

He catches the strand of red hair that’s drifting along the side of her face and tucks it behind her ear.

Their eyes lock. The sounds of celebrating teenagers falls away. There’s only the crackling and snapping of the campfire.

Phillip shifts closer and Ambrosia follows. The space between them rapidly deteriorating.

“I’m glad you here.” His voice is quiet and unsure. There’s a chance she might take his words the wrong way. His eyes flick to her mouth as she wets her lips with her tongue. Phillip bites the inside of his cheek to stop from groaning out loud – again.

“Really?” She flutters her eyelashes at him.

He nods. His fingers trail down her shoulder. Suddenly, a pop and whiz of firecrackers breaks the spell that’s over him. His head is cloudy and the beer is sloshing in his stomach. Jesus, he’s drunk and flirting – _blatantly_ – with his sister’s favorite friend. He was _seconds_ away from dragging his mouth across her throat and trapping her lower lip between his teeth.

He shuts his eyes. His exhale is slow and steady, “Sorry, Amb, I’ve had a bit to drink.” Phillip uses his arm as a pillow as he rests his head back down, “My head’s spinning a bit.”

She leans over him,“Do you need some water?” Bold as brass, she rests her hand on his bicep and slowly rubs up and down. It’s blissful torture for him.

“No…” His voice is tight, “Thank you.”

**( three )**

Rosalind lifts her sunglasses, her bangs sticking up as she slides them up her forehead. “I said, I’m going to help you.”

Ambrosia doesn’t look up as she covers her legs in sunscreen. “I don’t need help. I just need opportunity!”

“Yes, I know _that_.” Rosalind replies, her voice a little exasperated. “You just need to go somewhere alone with him.”

“We’ve been alone before!”

“No!” Rosalind groans, “Other people were still around. Okay, just listen, what if you ask him to take you out on dad’s boat? Just a leisurely little zip around the lake?”

Ambrosia rests her chin in her hand while she considers Rosie’s idea. Eventually, they settle on it. Ambrosia didn’t have any other better ideas… _yet_. And Rosalind agrees to run interference and make sure no one else tries to join in the boat trip. It takes a bribe to keep Matthew uninvolved. It’s just before sunset and the world is covered in its golden glow.

Phillip jumps into the boat. It’s rocks slightly with the new weight and he looks back to Ambrosia, seeing her still standing on the dock. He frowns, “You sure about this?”

“Yup!” She pops the ’ _p_ ’ as she says it but, doesn’t move. There’s a reason she didn’t frequent the little boat rides on the lake. There’s a reason any of her swimming is done in close distance to the shoreline. What if the boat flips? What if something happens and they get stranded? She can swim but, she’s not a strong swimmer.

Phillip offers his hand to her, “Okay, here – I can help you.” He points, “Just put your foot there, hang onto me, and hop in.”

She follows his instructions and finds herself sitting in the passenger seat of the boat while Phillip unties the boat, the motor purring and bubbling up water from the back. Her nails dig into the upholstery as the boat starts to pull away. There’s no waves on the lake. No other boats zooming through the waters. For that, she’s grateful. Phillip seems to sense her discomfort and keeps the speed low.

“Who taught you how to drive a boat? Your dad?” Ambrosia asks, trying to make conversation to keep her mind off the idea of the boat flipping over and drowning her.

“Yeah.” The breeze ruffles his hair, blonder than it was at the start of the summer. “He taught all of us.” He pauses, turning the motor off and letting the boat drift.

“Wait, why’d you shut it off?!” Ambrosia looks behind them and then to her surroundings. They aren’t quite at the middle of the lake, but they’re further out than Ambrosia would have expected.

“Um… it’s like parking a car.” He sits down, his chair across from hers, “You look a little pale.”

Ambrosia shrugs, “That’s just genetic.”

“You know what I mean.” He leans forward, their knees nearly touching, “We can go back.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” She smooths her hands over her dress, peeking up at him through dark lashes. Phillip doesn’t need to ask why she wanted to go out here. She could have taken this trip with Rosie. The boat rocks gently and Ambrosia feels her heart rate normalizing.

They fall into a comfortable back and forth – colleges he’s interested in, extra classes she’s taking, their parents, hobbies and interests, and books they’re reading (she’s more into the classics than he is).

A chill runs across her skin. She tries and fails to suppress a shiver. Phillip tears his eyes away from Ambrosia for the first time since they started talking. Soft twilight descending upon them, the sky a creamy gray and pink. “We should head in. It’s going to be dark soon.”

The short ride back is easier and Ambrosia remains still as Phillip ties the boat to the dock. He offers his hand again to help her up and she graciously takes it

Her window of opportunity is closing. “Phillip, wait,” She says, not releasing his hand, “Just…wait…”

The stars peek out from behind him. The crickets and the cicadas chirp, singing their song into the summer night air, hoping they’ll be heard. It’s now or never. Ambrosia lifts up on her tip toes, setting one hand on his shoulder to steady herself.

“Yo! Phillip!” A voice crashes forward, loud and carefree. Phillip turns his head and releases Ambrosia’s hand, spotting his youngest brother coming down from the house. The last thing he needs is Matthew gossiping. “John needs your help in the garage! Says it’s urgent.”

Matthew stopped calling John 'Dad’ about a few months ago. It’s a never-ending point of tension in the household.

“Be right there!” Phillip yells back, stepping away from Ambrosia. “Sorry - “ He watches her expression and sees the disappointment in her eyes. “Would you like to go out again sometime?”

“I don’t know….” Ambrosia folds her arms across her chest.

“Alright, well,” His eyes glance to the house, Matthew still watching and waiting for him. “You know where to find me.”

**( four )**

Phillip looks up from his book as he hears the leaves and sticks crunching under someone’s feet. The rope hammock swings as he moves. Ambrosia gives him a smile that’s soft and sweet. Their elbows bump together as she climbs into the hammock and settles beside him.

He doesn’t know when this became commonplace between them. Phillip showed her his favorite reading spot and Ambrosia invites herself along. The lush leaves overhead provide plenty of shade and and the layer of trees give some privacy. No one bothers him up here.

She rests her head against his shoulder. She smells like sunshine and vanilla and Phillip tries not to think about it. He fails, of course. Ambrosia Reynolds this close to him is haywire on his nervous system. All he can feel is her body pressed snugly into his, hear her soft breathing and the slow turning of each page of her book.

Phillip sets his open book on his stomach and closes his eyes. “You gonna take a nap?” She asks, craning her neck to peek at him.

“Maybe. I’m on vacation, after all.”

Ambrosia falls quiet, content to be next to him and reading. It feels like victory each time he scoots over in the hammock to let her in. The leaves rustle and Ambrosia turns the page on her novel.

A spot of moisture appears between the word 'the’ and 'carriage’. She frowns and peeps up, wondering if the leaves overhead had leftover moisture from the morning on them. Another drop falls and lands squarely on her nose. Phillip opens his eyes and grumbles, “What was that?”

Just as the words leave his mouth – a furious summer shower gushes from the sky. Ambrosia shouts, the hammock swinging them both as they scramble to get upright and under cover. The sun still shining overhead and casting rainbows along the lakes and between the trees. Phillip tugs Ambrosia under one of the thicker trees and tries to use his height to protect her.

Ambrosia’s back presses against the tree trunk and Phillip’s body hunches over hers. She laughs, her hair darkened by the rain and curled by the humidity, and she clutches her beloved novel to her chest. The water runs rivulets down her skin and droplets collect at the ends of her hair and eyelashes.

“You look like a little woodland fairy.” Phillip teases, desperately trying to ignore the close proximity of their bodies and the trail of water collecting at the hollow of her throat.

“Oh?” She smirks up at him, “And what would that make you then?”

“Probably the poor human who gets bewitched.”

The rain ceases as quickly as it came upon them. Phillip isn’t paying attention to the weather. How could he? There’s a force of nature right in front of him – all her red hair and wide, blue eyes.

He leans down, nose brushing against hers, and Ambrosia’s eyes slip close. A bead of water drips from his nose and lands on her lower lip. Her tongue darts out to capture it. Phillip groans deep within his chest and slants his mouth over hers. His hands, firm on her hips, pull her body flush against his. She loops an arm around his back and clutches his shirt. Her book still safely trapped between them.

His movements are slow and tender, the initial awkwardness of a first kiss fading quickly. Ambrosia gasps and tentatively glides her tongue across his bottom lip and his body shudders against hers. She delights in it. Phillip kisses the corner of her smile. He dips his head to her her neck and flicks his tongue across her pulse point, capturing the errant raindrops as they slide down to the curve of her shoulder. Ambrosia squirms against him. Philip takes a deep, deep breath and pulls away.

“We should head inside.” He shifts his weight awkwardly, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Ambrosia blinks, her cheeks a little rosy, “Yeah…” She nods, “Yeah, okay.”


	25. Siblings VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> advice from a sister ; rosalind & matthew

Rosie unlocks the back door of her house, keys jingling as she did so. She gasps. Her hand jumping to her throat. “Jesus Mary and Joseph!”

  
Her twin brother was sitting at the kitchen table. “You scared the day lights out of me!” Rosie shut the door behind her.

  
“Sorry.” Matthew looks up. Rosalind hadn’t seen that expression since they were kids, when Matthew was more thin-skinned to their fathers criticism.

  
“Hey.” She dropped her purse on the kitchen counter and went to sit beside him. “What’s up?”

  
“Alma and I had a fight.”

  
She grabs his hand and for once he doesn’t pull away. He lets her try to comfort him.

  
“You alright?” She asks, taking note that his eyes are clear, and his wedding ring still on his finger.

  
“Have you always wanted kids?”

  
Rosie frowns, “Uh. Yeah, yeah, I have.”

  
“And what if the person you were with wasn’t sure about it?”

  
“Matt…”

  
“I’m just looking for advice.” He says and he pulls his hand away. “You’re the only sibling I like and I’m not bringing this conversation to Barb.”

  
Rosalind bites her lip and folds her hands together. If he won’t let her hold his hand then she’ll hold her own.

  
“Okay, I can’t give advice on your relationship. I’m not in the relationship.” He tosses her a narrowed glance. “But, I can give you a thought experiment.”

  
Matthew rolls his eyes.

  
“Twenty, thirty, even forty years from now, right? Your old and you probably have gray hair and you’ve gotten fat. You got that weird old people smell happening.”

  
His lips quirk in a slight smile, “Painting a lovely picture here.”

  
“Thanks. So, anyway, that’s where you’re at. You look next to you and who is sitting there?” She doesn’t let him answer, but continues forward, “Now, think about it. Do you have grandkids? Do you see yourself thirty years from now with grandkids and your wife, happy and healthy?”

  
“What’s the point of this?”

  
“The point, Matthew,” She sighs and stands, “Is to think about the long term. It’s a scary, permanent thing. It’s a piece of you and a piece of her that gets to live on, for generations, and someday someone will look it up on Ancestry dot com and say - ‘oh cool, my great-great Aunt owned a bed and breakfast and was super gorgeous’.”

  
Matthew wrinkles his nose, “No one is going to say that about you.”

  
She swats his head, “Bastard. So, what’s the deal? You guys gonna do it?”

  
“Shit.” He exhales, “Do you think I could?”

“I’ve seen you do crazier things for less. Do you want some coffee? I think I have leftover muffins from this morning.”

He shakes his head, “Nah, I gotta get home.” He stands and kisses her forehead before leaving, “Thanks.”

Rosie watches the truck pull out from the driveway and pops a chunk of blueberry muffin in her mouth.


	26. Matthew II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> accidents happen ; matthew

Everything was white. The light hurt his eyes. People spoke, but it was as if their voices were underwater. His mouth felt dry, and he parted his lips - what did a guy have to do to get a drink around here?  
  
Then it was dark. Faint red light peeked through. Then blue. Red and blue, white, black, and then - he’s sure he fell asleep. The sound of tires screeching against the asphalt.   
  
His tongue felt like sandpaper. “Fuck.”   
  
“Watch your mouth, son.”   
  
Matthew pressed his palms into his eyes, aware that something was stuck to the back of his hand and it felt weird. The smell of antibacterial soap filled his nostrils.   
  
“Hey, pops.” His voice dragged across the back of his throat, a faint memory of blood coating his teeth. Groggily, Matthew opened his eyes and saw his mother, knitting, by his bed and his father reading a magazine.   
  
“Hi, sweetheart.” His eyes fluttered shut and he felt the cool touch his mother’s wedding band against his forehead.   
  
“What’re you…doing…here?”  
  
“Dumb question.” His father’s gruff voice came in reply. “You’re our son.”   
  
He floated into the darkness again. He smelled his sister’s perfume and felt someone fussing with the blankets around his legs.   
  
The window painted an indigo sky when he opened his eyes again.  
  
“Oh, Matty…” Rosalind’s face blurred into view. “I know you don’t believe in it, but I felt it when it happened.”  
  
“What ‘appened?”   
  
“You’re okay - here - have some water. I think they have you on some high quality pain meds.” His sister passed him a small plastic cup filled with water.   
  
The blissfully cold liquid trickled down his throat and he wet his chapped lips with his tongue. “Yeah? Tell Doctor Martinez I said thanks bro.”  
  
Rosalind fixed him with a stern look, but then smiled. “Who’s Alma?”   
  
His heart thudded nosily in his chest. “Huh?”  
  
“You mumbled it in your sleep - er - or maybe it was Llama?”   
  
Matthew gave her the empty plastic cup back. “She’s a friend.”  
  
Rosalind worried her lower lip between her teeth, and Matthew knew the question before she even opened her mouth to ask it. “No, don’t call her.”  
  
“Okay.” She took Matthew’s hand between hers, “You missed a really good episode of The Walking Dead.” His heart twisted, noticing the dark circles under her eyes, and the ruddiness to her cheeks. She’d been crying.   
  
“Tell me what I missed.”


	27. Matthew III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alt title: 5 times Matthew wouldn't say I love you & the one time he did  
> pairings: matthew x alma

Matthew pressed his face against the wonderfully cold tile of the bathroom floor. His insides were churning, his skin burning-hot, and he’s pretty sure that he’s going to start vomiting up his liver since there is nothing left in his stomach.

“Hey there, little brother.” Rosie’s voice is sweet and melodic and he can hear shuffle into the tiny bathroom. He’s afraid to open his eyes. The room spins when he opens his eyes.

Glass clinked against tile as she sets down a cup of water somewhere near his hand.

“You smell weird.” He said, throat raspy, the taste of sick heavy on his tongue.

“Pot meet kettle.” Rosie sat down beside him, her toes pressed against his calf. “What happened?”

“I ate some bad sushi.”

“Uh- _huh_.” 

They don’t speak. Occasionally, Rosie helps to hold the glass of water so Matthew can take tiny sips from it. He falls asleep, and when he wakes up, he can barely see in the darkness of the bathroom, but he can hear Rosie’s slow breathing.

“Hey, sis.”

“Mhm?”

“Go to bed, I feel better. I’ll be okay.” He reached out, patting her knee. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

“And Rosie–?”

“Yeah?”

“…Thanks.”

“There’s another glass of water by the toilet. G’night, Matthew.” 

## II.

Matthew rolled over onto his back, his skin sticky with sweat, the fan in the corner of the room caressing him with a constant wave of air. His heart was pounding in his chest. The bed shifted as Alma sat up and picked her bra off the floor.

He watched her, biting the inside of his cheek.

“Thanks for the fuck, Matty.” Alma said, shimmying her jeans up over her ass and hips. 

He sat up on his elbows, “Hey, I’m down for round two, if you feel like sticking around.”

Alma let out a breathy chuckle. “I’ve got a show to go to.”

“Cool, cool, cool.” He muttered, resting onto his back again. 

“I’ll see you around.” 

The door clicked shut.

“Yeah…”

## III.

Matthew liked being drunk. Beer was easy to get, even as a teenager, because every household had alcohol somewhere - you just had to find it. So, sitting in the basement of his best friend’s house, with a couple other students from his school was the perfect way to kick off holiday break.

He headed up the stairs to grab some snacks and more cups, since, according to Mike - a few others were coming by in a few minutes.

And that’s when he bumped into Maggie in the kitchen. His lips curled.

“Hey, bitch.” He said, callously, as he moved past her and opened the cupboard. 

“Hi, asshole.” She fired back, with equal venom. 

“You look like a fucking marshmallow.” He said, gesturing to her thick sweater, that covered all her curves. He missed those curves. Her face looked fatter, too. Maybe she was binge-eating after the breakup. 

“Fuck you, Matt. I’m just here to pick up my friend. I’m not staying with you and your dickhead friends.”

“Good.” 

Matthew paused, glancing over at her with his arms full of boxed snacks. “You know what?” He began, then stopped himself. It didn’t matter. Telling her wouldn’t change anything.

“What?”

“You should think about shedding a few pounds. You look like a whale.”

Maggie flipped him off. Her friend rounded the corner, smiling, “Hey Matt, hey Maggie - I’m _soooo_ wasted. Thank you for coming to get me.”

Matthew rolled his eyes and made for a quick exit - back to the booze, back to his real friends.

## IV.

There was shouting near the entrance of his father’s garage. Matthew looked up from the engine he was working on, his fingers and nails blackened with grease. Matthew grabbed a rag and began wiping his hands as he walked over to the altercation.

John McAllister’s face was red with rage and the man he was arguing with was throwing his hands around, gesturing aggressively, and pointing. Matthew took his chance to defuse the situation.

“Hey-o Pops. All good?” 

“Stay outta it, son.” John said, lifting his hand.

“Your mechanic work is sub-par! I’m telling you, when I got my car back, it smelled like dogs and cigarettes! I’m going to sue you. I’m going to tear this building down and put a McDonald restaurant here.” 

“I assure you, all my mechanics are hard-workin’, decent folk and we gotta test drive the vehicle before removing it from the lot. Would ya prefer us to just hand the keys over without making sure everything works?”

“Wait, this guy is pissed ‘cause his car _smelled_?” Matthew butt in, earning a cold glare from John.

“It’s not _just_ that, you ingrate!” The customer replied, turning his wrath on Matthew. “I brought my car to another shop and they said ya’ll missed several things that were wrong with it and hell, the charges! The fucking _charges_!”

“You sure that other shop ain’t just trying to screw with you?” Matthew said, his palms turning to fists. 

“I want my money back! All of it!”

“Sir, you sign a waiver when you dropped off your car. We promised to complete the work. You promised to pay. It’s a done deal.” John folded his arms across his chest. 

“I said, I want my money back!”

This went on for several, long, loud minutes. It ended with John giving the man _some_ of his money back, but stating if he wanted the rest, he’d need to call a lawyer. The father and son watched the customer peel out of the lot and flip them off.

“You gotta stop smoking in people’s cars, Matt.” John said, scratching his mustache. 

“I think he was lying about the dog smell. We don’t _have_ a dog.”

John chuckled lowly, “That might be your natural scent, son.”

“Wow, fuck you.” There was no heat behind the words. John patted Matthew’s back and they turned around, heading back to work. 

## V.

Matthew didn’t say anything as Rosie got home from her _very_ short trip to Dallas. There wasn’t anything _to_ say. His sister got dumped. He didn’t have any magic words to make it better. 

He put the kettle on, letting Rosie pick out the tea she wanted to drink, and he politely ignored the tears that would slip past her lashes.

“I thought he loved me.” She said, quietly, into her tea mug.

Matthew looked up, pouring himself another shot of vodka before speaking.

“That’s not always enough.”

Rosie laughed, the sound catching in her throat. “Wow, Matt. You’re such a romantic.”

He shrugged.

“I dunno.” Rosie sniffed, “I always thought it would be enough.”

“Life is full of awful surprises, I guess.” 

## VI.

He shouldn’t fight with Alma when they’ve been drinking. It always gets messy. Feelings get hurt. Shit gets broken. But, here they are - at each other’s throats - threatening to fuck or kill each other (whichever comes first).

“People leave, Matt! That’s practically all they’re good for!” Alma screamed, throwing his shoe back at him, and missing. It thumped against the wall.

“Fuck! I won’t!” 

She laughed at him, her mascara and eyeliner smeared, giving her the look of a wild raccoon.

“Yeah, yeah, _right_!”

“Alma, I fucking love you, you fucking fuckhead!” 

“Wow, fuck _you_ , really romantic - Matty!” 

He circled around the couch, grabbing her wrist when she lunged at him.

“I fucking mean it!” 

They wrestled against one another, shouting slurs, and curses, and promises, and threats, until inevitably they collapsed against one another and slid onto the floor. They were kissing, hard, lips clashing and teeth biting, his hands holding her head in place.

Distantly, there’s the sound of his belt jingling and then he’s inside her, her hips rolling and grinding, her teeth pulling on his lower lip. 

He hissed out a breath, “Fuck. I love you, Alma.”

“Shut up! Stop saying that.” She shoved her tongue into his mouth. 

“I’m not going to stop saying it. I’m not.” He groaned, grabbing her hip with one hand to keep her pinned close to him. She reeks of alcohol. They both do.

“Saying I love you doesn’t mean you’re not going to leave.” 

Matthew clutched her by the back of her neck, pulling her face down near his, their noses bumping. “I will spend the next fifty years proving you wrong.”


	28. Phillip & Ambrosia II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we have soft beginnings, my love ;; phillip x ambrosia

Ambrosia knocks back her second glass of champagne. It’s the eve of the new year and everyone is abuzz with aspiring resolutions and hope. She’s lost her date in the ever-shifting swarm of bodies. The music fluctuates between pop and classic rock with the sporadic slow song. Ambrosia checks the clock in the kitchen while refreshing her drink - switching champagne for fruity punch.

The clock reads 11:55 pm and Ambrosia purses her lips. She fills her cup halfway and decides if she can’t find her date, then she’ll just kiss someone else when the ball drops!

She had even picked out the most flattering ivory-colored turtleneck to wear and cute cat-faced shoes (which _no one_ has complimented on!)

There’s a new surge of bodies filling the house as another group returns from the bar down the road. Ambrosia, not wishing to get crammed into the kitchen as everyone comes for another drink, slips through the back door to the porch.

“Oh!” She startles as her body collides with another. The top of her head barely reaches a broad chest and her noses brushes against dark cotton. Fingertips brush her elbow, the touch firm and fleeting, but she can feel it through her sweater and the prickle of awareness runs up to her scalp.

“Sorry.” His voice is low and Ambrosia cranes her neck to see the face of this rude stranger. 

“I could have spilled my drink!” 

His blue eyes blink slowly and a semblance of a smile tugs at his mouth.

“I was being gracious when I apologized, technically, you bumped into me.” He peers at her cup, “Must be all the punch. It’s much stronger than it tastes.”

“Are you saying I’m drunk?!”

“Are you?” He asks and Ambrosia bites her tongue. She is tipsy, yes, _yes_ , she is aware of that! It’s in the heavy feeling of her limbs and the rosy tinge to her cheeks and the fluttering feeling in her stomach when she looks at him.

“You!” She points at him, “are just clumsy.” 

His eyes glance to the party within, thumping and yelling, “The ball is about to drop.” 

“You’re quick to change the subject.” She takes a sip of the punch. It’s very sweet.

Ambrosia is aware she should go inside. She’s standing on the porch talking to a gigantic stranger in the middle of the night and her date is inside. He might be looking for her and she’s not going to ring in the new year by herself.

She watches him card his fingers through his hair. There is something endearingly boyish about the gesture, even though she can guess he’s older than she is. She takes another healthy sip of the punch.

“I’m Phillip.” He offers his hand, “And I am very sorry to have bumped into you. _Hypothetically_ spilling your drink and ruining your lovely shirt.” 

His hand dwarfs hers as she shakes it. Her thumb brushes against a raised ridge of flesh near his thumb and the glow from inside the house casts half his face in shadow.

“Apology accepted.” She sniffs and looks out into the terrace.

“As far as introductions go - you’re really making me work for this one. What’s your name?” There is laughter in his voice and Ambrosia turns her head to catch and see if he’s smiling.

The porch door swings open and blocks him.

“There you are!” Her date exclaims, as if _he_ were the one trekking through sweaty bodies and loud music to find her (which, he may have, but it’s too late now!). Ambrosia stamps down her disappointment. 

A stumbling of movement and her date is kissing her as the crowd cheers inside, popping corks off bottles and screaming ‘Happy New Year!’

When Ambrosia opens her eyes, Phillip is gone.

A week into January and Ambrosia hasn’t seen Phillip again. She tries searching through Facebook with Cee but, after flipping through hundreds of Phillips just in New York State alone - she gave up.

The host of the party didn’t know him. Even with Ambrosia’s incredibly accurate description of a ‘clumsy, blonde-ish, blue-eyed giant’.

It’s a strange sort of melancholy she feels. They only spoke for a few minutes and yet there was _something_ about it. She runs a play-by-play through her mind a dozen times. Was it his eyes? The collision of their bodies like two cosmic forces aligning?

She shoves her laptop into her bag with more force than is necessary.

A _crush_ \- she could understand - someone who she met and interacted with on a frequent basis and got to know. Phillip wasn’t a _crush_. He was just a passing interaction, barely an acquaintance! It was maddening.

Ambrosia vows to not think of him again. She wants to enjoy the rest of her winter break before classes resume.

There’s only a small window of time before the semester begins again and Ambrosia is in Boston, visiting her mother. Their visits have been infrequent much to Ambrosia’s annoyance.

She sloshes through the cobbled pathway, the vibrant red scarf fluttering behind her head from the chilled wind. She tucks her hands into the pockets of her coat to stay warm and dips her pink nose behind her scarf to block it from the wind.

“You’re going to fall.” Ambrosia freezes in her tracks and nearly causes her mother to bump into her. That _voice_!

Her blue eyes scan the little shopping district and there he is standing taller than everyone else with a knitted cap on his head and a small smile on his face. He’s talking to an older woman, her white-blonde hair scooped up onto her head. The woman is trying on a pair boots, balancing on one foot, with a gloved hand on Phillip’s arm to steady her.

“Ambrosia?” Lucija’s voice lilts, concerned and curious - no doubt wondering why her daughter stopped so abruptly.

“Um, one second.” She can’t let this moment slip. What are the odds to run into him again in Boston, the place of her birth, of her childhood. She moves through the crowd, determined and flushed, and stops just a few feet away from him.

“Phillip?” 

He looks up and his breath catches in his throat. Barbara turns her head, beaming, “Oh hi!” His mother steadies herself, letting go of his arm. “I love this city. We always run into people here, don’t we?”

Barbara’s words are directed at her son, but she can tell he’s thoroughly distracted. She smiles, “I better go inside and pay for these. Stay here.” She pats his arm and shuffles back into the store.

“Hi.” His breath frosts in the air.

“Hi.”

Her smile is radiant, cheeks and nose pink and he thinks on any other redhead it would look ridiculous. But, not _her_. It only adds light to her eyes and the auburn whips of hair teasing across her lips.

“What…” Phillip clears his throat, “What the hell is your name?”

“Why did you leave the party? I would have told you then.”

He shrugs, looking away, “You seemed preoccupied.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” She shifts closer, no use in having a conversation several feet away. 

She squints at him. He looks different out here in the cold, the sunlight reflecting off the windows and snowbanks.

Phillip’s chuckle is breathy and light, “I never thought I’d see you again.”

He had left the party shortly after the ball drop. He had only been there to track down his younger brother (who had ended up at Columbia instead of NYU) and Phillip had circled through the popular frat houses and watering holes until he found Matthew and hauled him to the correct university. The entire evening he thought about going back, finding her, asking her name - _begging_ for it if he had to. He couldn’t explain it. He wanted to talk to her. She was cute.

The sentiment warms her, “Ambrosia Reynolds.”

“How long are you here for?”

“Just a few days.” She hums, expecting, _hoping_ , that he’s setting up to ask her out.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Ambrosia pauses, lets the question hang in the air for a few moments, pondering it even though her heart is hammering in her chest.

“We wouldn’t want to waste this opportunity.” She gives him a sly, soft grin. “I’ll give you my number.”

* * *

There is a first date.  
and a second.  
and a third.  
  
“I’ve never noticed this before…” Phillip says, brushing a strand of her hair behind her ear. Her legs are draped over his lap and her shoulder nestled under his arm. The movie’s soundtrack drums up for the climax.   
  
“Hm?” She pretends to not feel the fire-brand heat of his finger tip grazing across the small pink scar across the side of her neck.   
  
His eyes study the side of her face and his hand shifts to cradle her jaw, “Phillip! You’re going to miss the end of the movie!” She wrinkles her nose as he tilts her face towards his. Her heart is beating madly in her chest. She does not want to talk about the scars that mar her skin and she’s terrified he’s going to ask.   
  
“I don’t care.” Phillip ends all her worries of a discussion as he kisses her, firm and sweet. She clings to the front of his shirt and the movie rolls credits behind her.

* * *

He brings her to D.C in March after almost two full months of dating (though, their time is greatly stretched between his work schedule and her classes - they’ve only managed snippets of weekends or long phone conversations). 

Phillip has a habit of being tight-lipped when it comes to his work and his personal life.

But, he ought to get used to sharing it if he was really serious! At least, that’s what she believes. 

“So, this is it.” He says, carrying her bags through the threshold. 

It’s very sleek and modern, all dark blue hues, grays or whites, and Ambrosia has the funniest feeling that it was picked out of a home decor magazine and set up. It doesn’t feel _lived in._ She wonders if his bedroom is the same.

“How long have you lived here?” She asks, peering at the photographs on the wall. There’s a family photo with two dogs and she recognizes the white-blonde hair of Phillip’s mother, Barbara. There’s another photo of a group of men in their army uniforms, standing in a desert, and Phillip is on the far left - unsmiling. 

“About two years…” He says from the other room, “in this house, anyway.” 

“You like it?” She finds her way into the kitchen and runs her fingers across the granite counter top. 

“There’s plenty of space.”

“That didn’t answer my question, you know.”

“I like it enough.” Phillip joins her in the kitchen and wraps his arms around her waist from behind, kissing her cheek, “I like it more with you here, though.” 

Ambrosia lifts her hand and cradles the back of his neck, “Will you give me the grand tour?” 

“After brunch.” He says, kissing her temple, “This restaurant I want to show you closes at two.” 

“The picture in the hallway,” She says, turning around in his arms so she can face him. “Where was it taken?”

“Pennsylvania, at my parents house.”

Ambrosia scowls, brushing something off his shoulder, “Not _that_ one.”

He licks his lips, blue eyes looking down the hall, because he knows - he _knows_ \- the second he says it there’s going to be more questions. There always is. 

“Iraq.” He clears his throat, “I was nineteen.”

Phillip holds their joined hands up, turning it slightly so the light catches the raised skin of his scar. Ambrosia’s seen it a dozen times or more but never asked where it came from. 

“I have this,” His voice is lower, “And the photograph to remember it by.” 

“You were so young.” 

“We all were.” 

Ambrosia feels her chest tug painfully. She brings her mouth down to their hands and presses her lips against his scar. She knows what it’s like to carry a painful reminder of the past. She tries to blink back the tears, but Phillip is kissing her and they slip down her pale cheeks. 

If he notices, he doesn’t say. He just clings to her in the muted light of his kitchen and buries both hands into her hair, loosening the clips and pins she had so artfully arranged. 

* * *

Phillip stands in the bathroom brushing his teeth. Already, Ambrosia is seeping into the fabric of his home. Bobby pins on the sink and her red hair is caught on white furniture. There’s a small makeup bag on the bathroom counter with half the contents spilling out from when she had to get ready for their dinner. 

He spits toothpaste down the drain and runs his fingers through his dampened hair. 

Ambrosia takes this prime opportunity while Phillip is in the bathroom to poke around his room. It’s harmless. She’s not even really looking for anything specific - so it’s not snooping. Not really. 

His closet is mostly dress shirts and blazers and ties. The top of his dresser has cologne and deodorant and loose change. She finds a broken watch in his night stand and an old drivers license. 

She digs through his drawers and her fingers brush against something glossy. She fumbles to pull it out - the box is black and about the size of her palm. There’s no writing or adornments on the size, but a light shake tells her there’s something within. 

Ambrosia hears footsteps creaking on the hardwood and she tosses the box back into the drawer, shutting it swiftly and climbing back up into bed - all in record time before the door opens and Phillip emerges. 

“Hi!” 

He smiles at her, “I didn’t give you enough time to change?” 

Ambrosia flushes. In her excitement to search around his room, she’s still dressed for dinner. She only managed to take down her hair and it fell in thick, auburn waves down her back. 

“I couldn’t reach the zipper.” She says breezily, covering for herself, and scooting to the edge of the bed. “Maybe you can help me?” 

Phillip feels his throat go dry. “Maybe.” 

He kneels at the edge of the bed and slides one hand up along her calf and Ambrosia watches him, the blush on her cheeks rushing down to her neck and her hands curl into the soft comforter. Phillip’s hands are warm and calloused and ever-so gentle as he peels down one of her stockings. 

His lips touch the top of her knee, “You told me you played soccer.”

“I did.” 

He kisses her skin, the roughed up knee from her youth is faded, but the gesture is there. His hands slid to the other leg and pull down the stocking with the same slow, careful and sensual deliberateness. 

“I had a broken ankle in high school from football.” His hands cover the tops of her thighs, “You can see the scar on the ankle bone if you look close enough.” 

“It’s hard to imagine you laid up with any sort of injury.” She smiles down at him.

Phillip chuckles, the soft cotton of his shirt pressing into her knees, and the reverberation of his laugh thrills her to the core. 

“It was torture.” 

Ambrosia reaches for him, her fingers gliding through his damp hair, and his body rises up to cover hers. The cool metal of her dress’s zipper presses into her back until it’s shoved up and out of the way.

“Can we turn off the lights?” She asks against his mouth.

Phillip holds her face in his hands, eyes seeking hers, wondering how a woman so intelligent and beautiful and stunning would feel self-conscious with _him_ and all his broken parts. 

“If that’s what you want.”

“Yes.” She nods, before she can change her mind. She’s not ready. He’s seen the pinpricks on her inner arms and said nothing, never pushed her for answers. He’s seen the small scar on her neck and never asked for more detail. And yet, being wholly naked and in the bright florescent light is too much for her to handle right now. 

“Okay.” Phillip draws his shirt over his head and reaches for the lamp. “I just hope we don’t accidentally head-butt one another in the dark.”

She laughs a little, her tensions easing, as the darkness engulfs them both and she must feel along his shoulders to cradle his face and find his mouth. 

* * *

Ambrosia wakes before Phillip does and the daylight streams in through the thin curtains. It takes her a moment to remember where she was and what happened and she stretches languidly against the soft sheets. 

She turns to face Phillip and his mouth is open as he sleeps. She props her head up on her hand and admires what she couldn’t see last night and only felt. 

Her breath catches in her throat as her gaze travels beyond his hips and sees the large scar on his upper thigh. She shifts closer, keeping the sheets wrapped snugly around her chest. It’s jagged, only resting above the knee, a few inches scarce between it and the femoral artery. 

“Morning, sweetheart.” Phillip’s voice jolts her and she whips her head around to see him, looking far more awake than he ought to be, and he gestures for her to come close.

Phillip lets Ambrosia snuggle back into his side and his fingertips coast up and down her shoulder and arm, “Another injury from the war. Second deployment.” 

She presses her face into his skin, “Does it bother you?”

“Sometimes.” He admits, lips brushing the top of her head, “People have tried to tell me I should think of it as a trophy. A badge of honor.” There’s bitterness in his voice and he doesn’t try to mask it. “I’d take a hundred more scars if it meant that the good men who died were still living today…”

Ambrosia lifts her head, her hair wild and bright in the morning sun, and he can’t help but smile softly at her. Even in his darkest mood - looking at Ambrosia is like coming up for air after being underwater. 

“Does it bother _you_?” He asks her, a note of insecurity slipping through. He held her in his arms last night and in the darkness felt _everything_. He had kissed her stomach and noticed the way she tensed when he came close to her lower abdomen. Phillip had first interpreted it as nerves, but the second time around, he knew it was something else. 

“No!” She takes his hand and squeezes it, “I like you just the way you are.”

“And I like you, just the way you are,” He brushes his thumb across her knuckles, “All of you.” 

Ambrosia swallows and she relaxes back into the pillows as he shifts their bodies. The sheet, a flimsy guardian, slides from her shoulders. 

“Say the word and we stop.” Phillip whispers, lazily kissing her neck, and it takes her several seconds to realize _where_ he’s kissed her. The scar. Like he had done last night to her knee. Like she had done in the kitchen to his hand. 

Can two people communicate without words? Were there even any adequate words for what she could - or wanted - to say? 

She runs her fingertips across the uneven scar on his leg. 

He touches the scar on her lower abdomen, running horizontal and rigid. Now is not the time for questions or war stories. He kisses her skin, he kisses the scar, and he hears Ambrosia intake a sharp breath.

Phillip instinctively pulls back and raises his face to hers, brushing their noses together, “It’s alright,” He says, seeing the tears misting her eyes, “You’re so beautiful and so very, very brave.” 

“Phillip…” She winds her arms around his neck and pulls him down, shutting her eyes, shutting out the world for a few blissful moments. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” He responds, curling an arm around her back and drawing the sheet over them both. 

She sniffs, burying her nose into the crook of his neck and draws her leg over his. Their bodies entwined and covered by the soft morning light. She lets the tears fall from the corners of her eyes and Phillip catches them with his thumb, murmuring soft words of endearment each time. How lovely she is, how lucky he is to have met her again….

“I don’t believe in fate, Ambrosia,” His voice is quiet, “But, if I did, I’d be thanking every deity in known existence and every star in the sky for putting us in Boston at the same time and place that day.”

“You’re a romantic.” She tries to shift closer, but there’s no further space to do so. “I don’t believe for one second, with all those co-workers I’ve met, that you’re the office grump.” 

“Ah…” Phillip kisses her forehead, “I think I just have a weakness for red haired women named Ambrosia Reynolds.” 

She laughs, “That’s a very specific weakness.” 

“That or you’re a rare woman.” 

Phillip kept his emotions close to his chest. He didn’t take relationships or love lightly. They were _commitments_. But he knew, in that hazy morning, with Ambrosia’s heartbeat near his own - that this was the woman he was going to marry. 


	29. Parenthood I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairing; phillip x ambrosia

Figuring out what to name a child was a lot harder than he would have thought. They had poured over websites and baby-name books, tossing ideas over dinner, and practicing how the names sounded on their tongues. 

Phillip made a point of ignoring any of the “ _most popular_ ” names. He didn’t want his child lumped together with a bunch of ‘Emma’s’ and ‘Nicole’s’. 

“What about Beatrice?” Rosalind suggests, her hand still on the page of the baby book. She sat crossed legged on the picnic blanket, with Ambrosia beside her. 

Ambrosia wrinkled her nose, “No.” 

“I think it’s a good one.”

“Yeah, sure” Phillip rolled his eyes, passing Ambrosia her lunch, “if we were giving birth to a eighty-year old.”

Ambrosia patted her sister-in-law’s knee, “You can keep that one for your own little ones.”

Phillip wasn’t a _creative_ man - he could write well, and he was detailed, and he had some sense of fashion. Ambrosia would curl up next to him at night, holding her phone, and showing him Pinterest boards of nursery ideas. They’d talk about the ones they liked - “That one is too gaudy” she’d say, “Why is everyone obsessed with fur rugs in the baby’s room?” He’d ask. 

So, one day, while Ambrosia was away shopping for maternity clothes - Phillip invited his mother to the house. Rosie might love to redecorate, but Barbara was the only one in the family with any real creative talent. 

He pulled up the picture on his phone - “Can we do this in an afternoon?”

Barbara’s face lit up, and she squeezed his arm, “As long as you listen to my every direction and don’t argue, then yes.” 

Due to the fumes, Phillip wouldn’t let Ambrosia into the baby room for three days.

By the end of the week, Ambrosia was ready to storm in just to see what he’s done - but Phillip stopped her.

“It’s a surprise…but okay…we can go see it.” He guided her into the room, both hands covering her face. His heart jumped with anticipation. She could hate it. And then he’d have to paint it over and start all over again. (Not that he’d mind. He’d fetch the moon out of the sky if she asked). 

“Ready?”

“Yes!”

“One…”

“Phillip, just show me!” Ambrosia’s fingers wrapped around his wrists and he let his hands fall.

The walls had been repainted to a grey-blue shade, but the true attention was to the wall that the crib pressed against. Phillip and Barbara painted a mural; Small wisps and plumes of grey clouds, pinpricks of white-yellow starlight, a crescent moon with its edge resting against the crib’s bar. Barbara had hoped that the angle would allow the baby to see it when she was in the crib. 

He felt Ambrosia’s intake of breath with his hand on the small of her back. 

“Barbara’s work.” He chimed in, before she jumped to an assumption that he had any artistic talent.

“Do you like it?” He looked over her shoulder, trying to read her face. “Oh, oh sweetheart.” Phillip pulled her into a hug, noticing the tears pooling in her eyes. 

“It’s hormones!” She mumbled into his shoulder. Ambrosia sniffed, “It’s really, really beautiful. Barbara did all this?”

“Well, I _helped_.” He smoothed back her hair with his hands, “But, yes, she did.”

Ambrosia’s arms circled around his waist, her cheek pressed on his chest, and the name popped into her head - sudden and perfect and _right_.

“What about Diane?”

Phillip rested his chin on top of her head, the swell of her stomach not yet big enough to interrupt their embrace. 

“Diane it is, then.”


	30. Parenthood II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairing: phillip x ambrosia

( ** _September_** )   
  
The leaves are just starting to turn and the late afternoon sunlight filters through the large windows. It casts a golden hue about the living room as Phillip lies on his stomach with Diane for ‘ _tummy time_ ’.   
  
The orange colored peach-fuzz on top of her head is sticking up and her small, chubby fingers wiggle against the carpet.   
  
“You’re doing great, darlin’.” He tells her, and Diane’s mouth lifts in a smile. It’s _fascinating_ to him. She watches his face.   
  
“Hey, P!” Ambrosia’s voice carries into the room and Diane - with her limited mobility - can only turn her head a little, recognizing the sound of her mother’s voice. Phillip carefully lifts his daughter into his arms.  
  
“Yeah, we’ll be right there.”

( _ **October**_ ) 

Diane starts to babble and make noise. Ambrosia is convinced that her daughter is ahead of the curve from every other single baby in creation. She sits on the floor with Diane in her lap and a large, brightly colored book in front of her.   
  
The book was a gift from Barbara. It had lights and sounds and different textures for Diane to grab and run her fingers across.

“So, the sheep went ‘Baa - Baa - Baa’ all the way to the farm.” Ambrosia reads aloud, Diane’s fingers poking the fake-fur cut-outs. 

“Bbbulbbl.” Diane responds, pressing her lips together and blowing spit-bubbles.

“And the the dog went ‘woof - woof - _woof_ ’ all the way to the house.” Ambrosia turns the page and pressing a button, it causes the book to play the sound of dogs barking. 

Diane smiles and slaps both hands against the tough-cardboard paper. 

“bub-bub-bub..pffffhhhh.” Diane looks up, and Ambrosia follows her gaze, seeing Phillip standing in the entryway. 

“I got dinner.” He says, holding up the paper bag and shutting the front door with his shoulder. 

“DaDaDa!” 

Both parents freeze, “Did she just?” Phillip’s jaw drops.

“Di, did you just say Dada? Did you just say Dad!?” Ambrosia twists to look at Diane’s face, but their daughter is now sucking on her fingers and _not_ listening.

( _ **November**_ ) 

The McAllister household is an adjustment during the holidays. It’s always been chaotic, but now Ambrosia and Phillip have to worry about their 3 month child within that chaos.

“She’s the cutest baby in the world!” Barbara announces, on her second glass of sherry. The camera shutter snaps as she takes, no _exaggeration_ , the hundredth photo of Diane in her baby-carrier. 

Diane swats at the toys hanging down in front of her and smiles at her reflection in the little mirror. 

“Just adorable!” The camera snaps again, and then again. John is shaking his head - but he’s _smiling_. A rare sight. 

Phillip sneaks up behind Ambrosia and wraps an arm around her waist, kissing her temple. “Mom’s enjoying herself.”

“She’s offered to babysit four times.” She leans into Phillip’s touch, head resting against him. 

“The evening is still young. She’ll get to double-digits.”

Ambrosia tenses for a moment as Barbara scoops Diane out of her carrier and into her arms. She feels Phillip’s hand lightly squeeze her hip. 

“She’s fine.” Phillip says, his voice warm. “Mom raised four on her own. She’s an expert.” 

The camera flashes as John takes a picture. 

“Turn the flash off, John!” Barbara shakes her head, “No, here, let me see. Press that button. Yes. How did you even turn it on in the first place?” 

Phillip laughs under his breath.

( _ **December**_ ) 

They spend a lot of time on the floor when Diane is this small. Phillip has a nest of pillows surrounding her, helping Diane stay upright as they unwrap presents. She can hold her head up on her own and has started to roll back and forth when on her back.

He’s still fascinated. Phillip doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of watching her grow up.

The wrapping paper, loud and colorful, makes her laugh as she crinkles it within her hands or throws it down or rips it.

Ambrosia holds her cup of coffee between both hands, the warmth seeping into her fingers and palms as she watches the pair. 

“This one is for Mommy.” Phillip says, sliding the present across the floor and it bumps her sock-clad feet.

“We have to watch her open it, Di. Watch Mommy.” He says, pointing to Ambrosia and trying to keep Diane’s attention focused. It’s a lost cause with all the colors and lights.

Diane lets out another baby-squeal of laughter.

Ambrosia lifts the present and neatly unwraps it and tosses the paper to the floor. A furrow forms between her brows before she realizes what it is. 

Inside a glass frame is the photo from Italy when they took their official honeymoon, along with the plane tickets, and the business card of the vineyard they bought the wine from.

The folded note attached to it reads: 

_Ambrosia,_

_You changed my life. You are an incredible mother, amazing wife, and my best friend. I’d marry you all over again if I could._

_Yours,_

_Phillip_

Ambrosia looks up and Phillip is lying on his back with Diane sitting on his stomach. 

“Pbbbssshhh” Diane is saying, her red hair curling around her ears and illuminated by the multicolored lights on the Christmas tree. 

Phillip cranes his neck, seeing Ambrosia looking at him from the corner of his eye. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

She sets the present down and crawls over to her husband and daughter. 

Her hair tickles his chin and lips as she leans down and kisses his nose, “Merry Christmas, dear.” 


	31. Family I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pairing: focus on phillip x ambrosia - however - all characters are present

Phillip hadn’t been camping in _years_. His career didn’t allow for a long week away from work. But, his recent marriage had allotted him some vacation time. When his mother called, asking if he could come with them for Labor Day weekend, as they were taking a hike to the camp site and sleeping over two nights. 

Phillip’s original answer had been apprehensive. Ambrosia didn’t strike him as ‘ _outdoorsy_ ’ and there was a chance his younger brother, Matthew, would be coming along. The last thing he needed on his still-stabilizing partnership was his brother. But, Barbara had pushed, begging the question as to who the McAllister’s _really_ got their stubbornness from, until Phillip acquiesced to her wishes. 

“Did you do this often?” Ambrosia asks, watching the pine trees pass by, as her cell service diminishes. The foliage hasn’t started to turn yet, but she catches snippets of yellow and orange, fleeting and blurred. 

“Do what?” 

“Camp with your family.” 

“Yes.” Phillip flexes his fingers against the steering wheel, “When I was about…ten…is when we went on our first trip. Rosalind and Matthew were too young, so it was just me, my father, and Wesley.”

“Will they all be there?”

“Rosalind and Wesley - yes. Matthew is a hard maybe.”

She felt a slight nervousness in her stomach. This would be her first time meeting his family. When Phillip had asked if she wanted to come along, Ambrosia thought about saying no. She’d have the house to herself for the weekend - but - that wasn’t exactly a _rare_ occurrence. She could plan a meeting on more familiar terms, like a holiday party, or a cook-out. 

Rosalind takes to Ambrosia immediately. Not that it surprises him. His little sister was always quick to make friends and to include others, without question, in whatever scheme she was getting up to. He watches with a brotherly fondness as she pulls Ambrosia away from the car, insisting that she doesn’t need to carry tents or coolers, but that she can help Rosie and Barb with organizing the campsite.

“Is Matthew here?” Phillip asks, hauling a backpack over his shoulder and grabbing one of the tents. 

Wesley shakes his head, reaching into the trunk and helping Phillip, “Rosie couldn’t reach him. It’s a holiday weekend. He’s probably out on a bender.” 

Phillip nods, then frowns, “Are you sleeping enough?” He asks, noticing the dark circles under his brother’s eyes.

Wesley laughs - “Are you?” 

“Hmph.”

The hike from the car is shorter than Phillip expects. Past trips had been six or ten miles from the car, but this one is barely two and with the way Wesley is wheezing behind him - he can work out why. 

Ambrosia is, for lack of a better word, overwhelmed. Barbara hugs her, her grey hair pushed back by a headband, and she smells like lavender. Rosie is tall (because this is a family of giants - obviously) and talkative, her expressions vibrant and her smile bright with cheeks dimpling. How can she and Phillip be from the same gene pool? Her husband is so stoic and…cold. Well, perhaps that wasn’t _entirely_ fair. 

The man wasn’t home often and learning about him was a slow and arduous process. He kept to himself. Sometimes, she felt as if he didn’t know what to do with her.

“My boys!” Barbara stops mid-conversation to greet her sons. And Ambrosia watches as Phillip’s face genuinely lights up. His teeth flash, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, and he sets down what he’s carrying to let his mother embrace him. 

She squishes his cheeks between her hands, “Look at you! Are you eating well? What have you been eating? Not a lot of red meat - right? Look at your father, look at him. Too much red meat. Hm? You sleeping enough? You still go to the gym, hm? How’s work? You taking days off now?” 

Phillip’s answers to his mother’s questions are muffled by her quick litany of _additional_ questions. She’s practically interrogating him.

Ambrosia feels her lips quirk into a smile. 

* * *

“What is this?” John asks, “This cheese?” He sniffs the white block.

“No, Dad - that’s tofu.” Wesley answers, casting a glance towards Phillip and Ambrosia.

“Tofu?” John never trusts any food he can’t catch or kill with his own hands.

“Ambrosia is a vegetarian.” Phillip clears his throat, not meeting her eyes. Ambrosia didn’t pack it. She _knows_ she didn’t because Phillip was in charge of the foodstuff and there’s a slight tenderness in knowing he remembered.

“Huh…well…Barb?” John sets it back in the cooler, “You know how to cook that foo-foo stuff better than me. I’ll leave that to you.”

“Okay, well, that’s settled - can we please get back to Wesley’s embarrassing story now?” Rosie pipes up, the beer can cracking open and foam dribbling out the top.

Wesley groans.

* * *

Twilight descends and the campsite settles. Ambrosia sits in a cloth fold-out camping chairs. Barbara loaned her one of her zip-up sweaters. It’s too big, she has to roll the sleeves a little, and the hem lands at mid-thigh but it’s **cozy**. The crackling fire warms her lap and her toes. Barbara is knitting, telling Ambrosia all about her life in Boston - prior to meeting John. 

“I love the history there.” She says, knitting needles softly clacking together, “Not that New England in itself doesn’t have history - but - there was something…magical…about living in a house that was a hundred or two hundred years old.” Barbara adjusts her glasses, looking over at Wesley with a smile. 

“I think that’s where he gets it, you know? I took him to visit his grandmother when he was very young, just him and I, and I like to believe that’s when he fell in love with the country’s history. We went to so many museums that day.”

Ambrosia rested her chin in her hand, “How old was he?”

“Hmm..” The needles stop as she thinks, “Six or seven.”

Ambrosia tries to imagine Wesley as a little boy and then she tries to imagine Phillip. But, he’s so imposing now - it’s hard to conjure an image of him small and vulnerable. 

Phillip returns with John, each carrying more wood for the fire, and he looks at Ambrosia. The firelight illuminates her hair and he wants to tell her that it suits her, being bathed in firelight, but he’s surrounded by his family. He tucks the compliment away between his teeth. 

* * *

“You set up two tents?” Ambrosia looks at him, tilting her head. The tents are side by side, his is noticeably larger, perhaps built for two people while hers is built for one. Her head is buzzing from the wine and her heart is full of warm stories shared between herself and Barbara. 

“I assumed you wanted your privacy.” Only he and Wesley and Ambrosia are still awake. Phillip trusts Wesley not to gossip this conversation to anyone else. It’s one of the reasons they remain close. Wesley holds secrets. 

“Oh.” She slips a stray lock of wild hair behind her ear. She had thought that…that they’d be sharing a tent. Sleeping next to one another. If only for this weekend. Maybe separate sleeping bags but separate tents? No. It almost feels insulting - with his family all here - a sign of a crack in their marriage. She thinks of Barbara: 

_“Oh? John and I. No, it wasn’t easy. After I had Phillip, we hit a long rough patch. He was working a lot and I was staying home and unhappy. I think we were both unhappy and just didn’t know how to talk to each other about it. It only changed when I was upfront with him. ”_

Ambrosia tilts her chin up. “Two tents won’t be necessary, Phillip. I’d rather stay in the bigger one with you.” 

He can’t hide the slack jawed expression on his face and her lips upturn - is she smug? Is she happy that she’s dumbfounded him? Where is this coming from? He thought this is what she wanted - they don’t even sleep in the same bed at home! 

“Ah. Okay.” He shakes his head slightly, collects himself, and unzips the tent’s door-flap for her. “I’ll grab your sleeping bag from the other one.”

“Thank you.” 

Ambrosia slips her legs under the covers and the wine does help with the bumpiness of the ground beneath her. The firelight creates shadows on the tent and there’s a screen at the top where she can look out at the starlight and treetops. She thinks about closing it - to stop bugs from sneaking in - but she’s tired and as comfortable as she’ll get.

She can hear Wesley and Phillip talking, their voices low, and the occasional pop of the fire. Ambrosia shuts her eyes. She rolls over. She rolls over again. She shifts her pillow and draws the blanket to her chin. Why is it so impossible to fall asleep?!

* * *

“Is Rosalind asleep already?” Phillip asks, adding some smaller sticks to the fire. 

“Yeah, you know how she gets with wine. Hard liquor? No worries. Wine? She falls asleep like an old lady.”

“She’s the one who _brought_ the wine, though.”

Wesley shrugs. 

“She seems to like your wife.”

“Hm.” Phillip looks over at the tent. His heart jumps. 

“I like her too, for the record. I think you’re a good match.”

Phillip smirks, quirking his eyebrow at his brother, “You do?”

“Yeah.” Wesley tilts his head back, looking up at the stars, “And I’m not just saying that because she agrees with me about Thomas Jefferson.”

“You two bonded over a dead president?”

Wesley snorts, “Yeah, duh.” 

* * *

The tent unzips and she can make out the shape of Phillip’s head, “Are you still awake, sweetheart?”

She is. She has no idea how long she’s been lying here, debating going out there and taking with Wesley and Phillip before passing out. 

“Yeah.” 

“Okay.” It’s all he says before she sees him crouch into the tent, it looks so much smaller with him inside, and he zips back up the door. She scoots over to make room. He’s moving, kneeling by the end of the sleeping back, and she squints. The firelight has died down but she can tell by the sounds, the backpack unzipping, clothes rustling that he _must_ be changing. 

Ambrosia bites her lip.

He climbs in beside her and she almost, _almost_ feels like giggling. Maybe it’s the wine. She can feel his body heat radiating from him. His breathing is soft and she knows if she just wiggled back a little that she’d be pressed against him. 

“Hey, Phillip?”

“Hmm?” 

“I’m cold.”

Phillip slips an arm around her, pulling her back against his chest, and he feels and hears her slight gasp. “That okay?”

“Yes - mhm - thank you.” 

“Good. Now get some sleep.” Her body nestles next to his, his breath tickling her ear, and his heart is beating between her shoulder blades. The steady thump-thump is oddly comforting. It’s warm and even the bumpy ground isn’t so terrible. 

Phillip rationalizes that this - _cuddling_ \- is strictly for ‘survival’ purposes. That’s why he did it. That’s why she told him she was cold. Their combined body heat would keep them both comfortable through the night. 

And…it felt… _nice_. But, how it felt was just a side-effect of it’s true purpose which was to keep her warm. And it was just a side-effect that her hair smelled nice even tinged with campfire smoke, and that she fit so well against him, tucked in and protected. 

“Oh, Amb?” His voice is low, slurred by sleep. He needs to tell her before he falls asleep. 

“Yes?” 

“You looked nice today, by the fire, made your hair very pretty. Mhmph….that sounded better in my head.” 

Ambrosia can’t stop herself from laughing, just a little, and she snuggles into the pillow beneath her head. “Thanks.” 


	32. (au) my soul will remember yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> shameless angst death fic / pairing: phillip x ambrosia

Diane comes home from school with a look on her face. There’s a scowl that matches her father’s - her nose bridged with freckles is scrunched up and her thin scarlet brows are furrowed. She tosses her backpack on the floor. 

“You’re not going to believe what Emma said.” She announces, flopping into the kitchen stool, looking over at her mother - who was brewing coffee for when Phillip got home. Diane is nearly sixteen and she’s riddled with hormones and high school drama. 

“What did she say?” 

“She said that Rodger, which is a dumb name for an even dumber person, told Nathan, who is in my science class, that Penelope and I skipped math to smoke weed and give hand jobs behind the school. Nathan then told Liam, who told Emma, who told me and now the whole school thinks that’s what we did.”

Ambrosia sips her coffee, slowly, trying her best to be neutral here and listen to Diane, when really all she wants to do is go question this Rodger kid. Maybe hold him by the ear a little and remind him that gossiping is poor character.   
  
“And what did _you_ say?”

“I told Emma that she’s an idiot for believing that, because Penelope and I were in math class with _Rodger_. He’s just jealous because Penelope and Nathan are dating and he’s had a crush on Penelope for like…a million years.” Her blue eyes roll and she grabs an apple from the fruit bowl on the kitchen island, “I just don’t get why Rodger even involved me!” The apple crunches as she bites into it, her eyes still narrowed in thought. 

“Penelope is your best friend, right?” Diane nods, “Well, maybe he assumed that adding you to the story would make it believable.”

“He’s literally the worst, mom.” 

“Did you tell any of your teachers?”

Diane looks affronted by the idea, “No way! I’m not a _snitch_.” 

Ambrosia purses her lips. She knows she should let Diane handle it, that’s what Phillip would recommend, but she’s itching to call up the school and speak to Rodger’s parents and the principal. Her daughter’s reputation has been _spotless_ \- so far - great grades, a good group of friends she seemed to really like, and to see it tarnished by some little no-good brat. 

She makes a mental note to write an email later this evening.

* * *

Junior gets home an hour after Diane. He’s already tall for his eleven years. His hair more rusty colored than Diane’s bright copper. He comes running into the house and heads straight upstairs to his room, yelling, “I’m home!” 

Ambrosia yells back up to him, “Take your shoes off!” 

She looks at the clock. Phillip is usually home _before_ Junior. There’s a slight sinking feeling in her gut. The coffee is already cold, so she put it in the fridge. Phillip drank it cold, sometime, so there was no real worry there but…where was he?

Ambrosia gets her answer a mere twenty minutes later.

* * *

“Mrs. McAllister?” The phone number isn’t one she recognizes, but she answers anyway, and confirms her identity.

“My name is Dr. Harper. I need you to come into Hollow Brook Hospital. There’s been an accident.” 

“An accident?!” Ambrosia clutches the phone to her ear, standing in her husband’s office, her voice bordering on hysteric. “Is he alright?!”

“I’m not able to discuss it over the phone, ma’m.”

Thin, fragile fingers cover her mouth, her mind spiraling quickly into worst-case scenarios, and she’s struggling to breathe. She’s thinking of the hospitals and doctors through her youth, of her sister, of sterile needles and white gowns and it’s making her heart ache and her stomach lurch. 

“Please just come in and ask for me. The nurses will direct you.”

Ambrosia gets a second phone call on her way to the hospital. This time, it’s a number she _does_ recognize. it’s Phillip’s work number, but not his cell. A frantic, crazed moment takes hold of her mind and she hopes - briefly - that this is all a mistake. Phillip is calling her and he’s alright. He’s safe. 

“Hi Ambrosia, it’s SSA Morgan.” Her breath hitches, “Are you on your way to the hospital.”

“Who is it, Mom?” Junior asks from the backseat, leaning forward. 

“Yes, I am.” 

“Great, we’ll meet you there.” The line clicks. 

“That was just your father’s boss.” She answers, “She was just checking in.”

“Weird.” Diane comments, not looking up from her phone. Ambrosia hasn’t informed either of them the truth. All Diane and Junior know is that they needed to go to the hospital - but Ambrosia said it was because of Uncle Matthew. This was not uncommon. Matthew was always getting into trouble and breaking bones and needing rides back home. 

She was willing to lie if it meant keeping them safe.

* * *

“Why are the police here?” Junior pipes up, hands pressed against the glass window of the car, “Do you think the president is here?” _  
_

“Don’t be an idiot.” Diane snaps back at her brother, “We wouldn’t be allowed in if the president was here.”

“That’s not true!” He says, huffing, “Dad is with the FBI. They’d let us in.”

Ambrosia parks their car and scans the crowd. There are four police cars, bright blue and red lights flashing, outside the entrance along with two ambulances. Her heart thuds painfully in her chest with each step closer. 

Phillip’s boss intercepts before she reaches the main desk. “Ambrosia, we need to - oh, you brought Diane and Junior.” Morgan gently takes Ambrosia’s arm, and looks over at two other agents. Ambrosia turns her face away, holding back the tears that are threatening to spill. The kids will know something is wrong if she starts crying.

“I need to speak with your mother,” She looks over at two agents that Ambrosia doesn’t bother to recall the faces of. She can only think of Phillip. How close he is and how far - all at once. Morgan is here which means it’s worse than she might have imagined. 

Diane crosses her arms, “Where’s Uncle Matt?” 

“Kids, go wait over by the desk.” Ambrosia summons up every ounce of authority in her voice, overriding the pain and fear. “I’ll be right back.”

* * *

Morgan leads her into one of the examination rooms. The second she is alone and the door is shut, Ambrosia covers her face and lets the tears escape. “What is going on?! Where is my husband? No one is telling me _**anything**_!” The fear mixes with anger and frustration, and she takes it out on Morgan, even if the other woman doesn’t deserve it.

“Where is Phillip!? Why are you here? What’s with all the police?! I brought my children here and they don’t know what’s happening and I can’t tell them and I don’t know why I’m here! The doctor said accident, but wouldn’t tell me anything else! What the hell is going on?!”

Morgan’s face betrays nothing, but she eases Ambrosia into a chair and offers her a box of tissues.

“Ambrosia, I need you to breathe.” Morgan says, keeping a strong grip on her shoulder, “Phillip is in surgery right now.”

A sob wrecks through her body, shaking her ribs, and rattling her heart. 

“He was shot.” 

“No.” Ambrosia grabs a handful of tissues and presses them into the corners of her eyes and blows her nose, “No, no, no.”

Maybe if she denies it long enough, it’ll rewrite history, and place Phillip in front of her - whole and strong.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry -” Ambrosia knows she means it, but she can’t help but reject the idea of her pity, because Phillip is just in surgery and he’s the strongest person she knows…if anyone can survive a little surgery - it’s him. He wouldn’t leave her. He wouldn’t leave Diane. Or Junior. 

“Wasn’t he wearing a vest?! Don’t you guys have protection for him?! I want to see him, please. Please.” 

“We have to wait until he’s out of surgery.”

Ambrosia loses track of time in that tiny room. She weeps until her body can weep no more. Her sobs become hiccups, the tears no longer fall, but her face and nose are red and puffy. 

At some point, Morgan leaves to check on Diane and Junior. She returns with a juice box for Ambrosia and sits beside her. Her imagination can see him clearly on the operating table. She can see the doctor’s hovering over his body. She can picture it clearly in her mind and it kills her that she cannot be beside him and hold his hand.

“Please tell me what happened.”

Because maybe if she knows, then she can make sense of it.

Morgan sighs, runs a hand through inky black hair, and rests her elbows on her knees. 

“We were in pursuit of a suspect. Phillip and his partner split up, on foot, to try and trap him. We knew the suspect was armed, but we didn’t have time to set up snipers or back up. Phillip and his partner planned to apprehend the suspect before he had the chance to escalate to violence or escape. However, we misjudged how… _unhinged_ the suspect was. He got spooked and fired his gun, randomly and wildly, I’m not sure who he was even aiming at and harmed three civilians. Phillip was shot then, twice. When he went down…his partner fired and…well, the suspect was killed..” Ambrosia heard Morgan’s voice tremble. 

“I’ve known him for ten years…” Morgan sucks in a harsh breath, “I thought after you had your son, that he’d step down, change careers, or something…but he never did. I think that shows your husband’s determination. I think he is one of the few people who do this job and truly, honestly believe that we are saving lives.”

Ambrosia is wrung dry of tears. She wishes she thought to put on her wedding ring before leaving the house. She was always losing it, so she kept it in her jewelry box. She wants it’s comfort now. 

But, more than that, she wants Phillip.

* * *

Diane slams her door shut and buries her face into the pillows on her bed. The door re-opens and her mother’s arms go around her shoulders. Ambrosia rocks her daughter back and forth, clutching to her firstborn tightly, remembering how it felt to hold her as a baby - small and fragile - with big blue eyes that stared at the world in wonder. 

“No! Go away! I want Dad!” 

“I know, sweetheart, I know.” Ambrosia kisses the top of her head. She’s trying so hard to comfort her, while at the same time seeking comfort of her own. 

All light and warmth feels as if it was sucked out of her bones. 

The doctor had brought Ambrosia, Morgan, Diane, and Junior all into a room. Ambrosia remembers how his gloves were still bloody. He expressed his condolences. His deepest apologizes. The first bullet had done too much damage, he said. They did everything they could. The second bullet had torn through such and such of an artery and Phillip had too much blood loss when he arrived. Ambrosia had stopped listening once he said he was sorry. Because sorry meant that the doctor had failed.

* * *

Ambrosia doesn’t touch his things. She leaves everything where it’s supposed to be. His clothes. His toothbrush. She steps into his closet and buries her nose into the collars of his dress shirts and tries not to cry. She doesn’t want her tears to ruin them. 

She keeps Diane and Junior out of school. She can’t expect them to focus on World History and Math when their father isn’t here.

Rosalind moves in the next day. She sleeps on the couch and makes sure everyone eats. She puts on movies when they can’t sleep. Matthew drops off meals, either made by him or Barbara, Ambrosia can’t tell. He never stays long. He never says anything. 

It’s the first time Ambrosia ever sees John cry. His eyes (blue, so blue, just like her husbands) fill to the brim with tears and he tries to brush them away. But, then, Diane throws her arms around her grandfather’s stomach, bawling, and John cannot stop himself. The tears fall, big and heavy, and dampen his beard. 

His absence is akin to losing the sun. Food tastes like ash in her mouth. The days blur together. She cries when she wakes and she cries when she falls asleep, clutching his pillow, and wishing this was all just a terrible, awful dream. 

Sometimes, she imagines he’s here. She’s not a believer in ghosts or spirits. But she sits at the kitchen table and imagines he’s with her. She imagines the white press of his dress shirt, the glint of his watch (her first birthday gift to him - given on the wrong day), the shadow of stubble on his jaw that feels scratchy and soft beneath her fingertips. She imagines what he’d say, the curve of his smile, the gentle crinkling of the corners of his eyes. 

Maybe she’s just torturing herself. 

Her children keep her going. They are so like her, but she can see echoes of Phillip in them. Their height, their smiles, their stubbornness, and their strength. Diane asks to go back to school first. She misses her friends. She wants to be able to go to the Sophomore dance. Ambrosia doesn’t deny her. If she feels she’s ready, then she’ll let her go. Phillip wouldn’t want to condemn his children to a life trapped in the house with only his ghost and the weeping widow. 

Junior sits next to Ambrosia on the couch and rests his head in Ambrosia’s lap. It’s something he hasn’t done since he was a child. He would climb up and put his head in her lap and fall asleep. Ambrosia plays with the mop of reddish curls on his head. 

“Does it ever stop?” He asks, “Am I ever going to be okay?”

Ambrosia can’t answer him. She wants to. She just doesn’t know how. Her heart is too full of grief. She just keeps running her fingers through his hair. 

He takes her silence as an answer. 

* * *

Ambrosia finds a letter in his sock drawer while she’s doing laundry. 

Puzzled, she opens it and her eyes immediately blur with tears as she sees his handwriting and her name at the top. Judging by the lines and scribbles, it was only his first draft. 

_Ambrosia,_

_Happy Anniversary, Sweetheart. I hope I have time to get you something special. ~~It’s a big milestone.~~ ~~Seventeen~~ Eighteen years. I’ve been married to the most wonderful, beautiful, and charming woman for 18 years. _

_Ambrosia, I am so ~~happy~~ lucky to wake up next to you each morning. You ~~’re~~ are the light of my life. You are an incredible mother, my best friend, and my closest confidant. I could not imagine my life without you nor would I want to._

_I love you and I hope_

The letter ends prematurely. Ambrosia presses the fine card stock to her chest and against her fluttering heart. 

She can hear his voice - it’s probably a sign of insanity - but as she re-reads his words she can hear him. The way his mouth would curve upwards into a natural smile every time he said _‘I love you’._ As if the words brought him so much joy that he couldn’t help but smile. The slight drawn-out way he said ‘ _Sweetheart_ ’. His favorite pet name for her. 

Ambrosia lays on her side on the bed and keeps the letter close. She shuts her eyes and pretends she can hear him breathing beside her. 

* * *

**_if you must die, die knowing your life was my life’s best part_ **


	33. Phillip & Ambrosia III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there is love hidden in the crinkle of your smile ;; ambrosia x phillip

He’s forgotten how to be warm. The feeling is an impression of a dream that’s left during the dawn hours. Whenever his fingertips reach for it there’s a sudden slip and it cascades away from him and dissolves.

Phillip could try to blame it on the bodies left on the roadside, the ash and dust of his service to his country, or the abusers and murders who escaped justice. But, the truth is that blaming others or trying to blame the past served him no purpose.

Rosalind believed that once he was married that he’d learn to be soft.

He hasn’t. But, maybe he’s simply impatient.

For his dear, small wife is pure sunlight. She is the coming spring after a long winter frost and he feels as if he’s lived in a cave these past thirty-plus years unaccustomed to her radiance. He doesn’t know what to do with himself around her. So, Phillip does what he’s always done and throws himself into his work.

Wesley stops by for a visit shortly after New Year’s. He’s in DC on a conference and they meet up for coffee while Phillip is at work. Phillip loves his siblings – even Matthew – but he doesn’t express it. John believed and taught him that talking about emotions is pointless, because it’s your actions that held ‘true meaning’. Wesley, being the second eldest, can read his brother easier than most.

Phillip knows this – so he carefully guards his words and his facial expressions. His younger brother’s face is red from the wind, chestnut hair blown in an odd direction, and he’s tucked his chin into his scarf.

“How’s Ambrosia?” Wesley asks – because he likes her and he cares. Phillip knows it. There are few people in this world who enjoy talking about history and politics.

“She’s fine.” There is note in his voice that Wesley catches. Phillip shakes his head, as if to stop him from inquiring further, but Wesley is already opening his mouth.

“Odd answer. Everything alright?”

“Yes.”

The steam from the coffee is pushed aside as Wesley blows it, taking a slow sip and narrowing his eyes over the rim at Phillip. Phillip wishes he could be more like his brother – the man is quick to smile and pleasant to be around. Wesley has warmth. Even if he can be annoying…like right now…because Phillip knows that he’s going to ask him a personal question.

“How do you feel about her?”

Phillip crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“If you won’t answer, can I give you a bit of advice?”

Phillip says nothing.

“Look, alright,” Wesley sets his coffee down on the table, hands moving with his words, and Phillip feels like he’s about to be lectured.

“You care about your family, right?” Wesley raises his hand, “Rhetorical, don’t answer. Just listen. Well, Ambrosia is family and she didn’t have twenty-something years with you to understand how you work. You’re both in this thing, blind, and you have to be transparent with her. How do you think Ma and Dad worked it out? Dad’s _worse_ than you. I’ve only heard him say ‘I love you’ one time and I think I was like…six…” He shook his head, “I see how you look at her. I saw it on New Year’s. But, have you ever actually said anything?”

Phillip clenches his jaw, “She knows. I gave her the bedroom and one of my shirts.”

Wesley pinches the bridge of his nose and inhales, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” He says, using one of Rosie’s favorite ‘curses’.

“Do me a favor, Phillip, and use your fucking words.”

* * *

The shadowed corners of his home are filled with her light. He finds bobby pins, and hair clips, and he tries to organize them – only to have two more crop up the next day. He was forced to use her shampoo (she moved his and he couldn’t find it) and he arrived at work smelling like vanilla and chamomile. He finds the ghosts of her throughout the home, a place that he never once had to share up until now. Folded Boston Globe Newspapers, a strand of red hair, the fruits and vegetables nearly spilling out of their fridge.

Phillip tries to do his own laundry as often as he can, believing that Ambrosia shouldn’t handle the brunt of the housework just because she’s the woman. He opens the dryer to find her clothes inside and without thinking much of it – folds it and places the basket outside her door.

Wesley’s advice from earlier in the month still nudges him. It takes him a whole week to try and apply it.

“We should go to dinner.”

“Hm?” Ambrosia looks over her shoulder, Machiavelli is curled in her lap, and his eyes regard Phillip like a sphinx guarding the maze.

Phillip inhales, tries again, “I would like to take you to dinner.”

“When?”

“Whenever you’d like.” There’s a sudden, unexplainable feeling of nerves in his chest – she could reject him. He hadn’t realized how much he cared until this exact moment. Yes, she was his wife and he was her husband, but they hadn’t behaved like a couple.

Phillip had co-workers who tolerated their spouses, others who were strictly platonic, and he did not want that. He did not want to simply tolerate Ambrosia. He wanted to _know_ her.

And, perhaps a more terrifying realization, he wanted her to _know_ him.

Her graceful fingers run through the cat’s fur – “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

The tension in his shoulders relaxes, “You know where to find me.”

* * *

Phillip almost falls asleep on the train, but his head jerks up, and he blinks – watching the terrain slip by the windows. He cannot find sleep without the comfort of Ambrosia beside him. It’s his first time away from home since Diane was born. He took six months after her birth, continuing his desk job, until returning the field.

He was only away for two weeks, but her absence pains him like a hollow point in his heart. He didn’t think it would affect him this much.

“Mamoo!” Diane is gleeful and heavy in Ambrosia’s arms as she leans over to place her daughter in the car seat. “Maaaam. Dada!” Her daughter is clinging to a well-loved, well-washed lion stuffed animal, hair matching her mother’s clipped back with a little green ribbon.

The SUV is far too big for Ambrosia’s liking, but it’s Phillip’s, and he only bought it because of the safety rating and how it handles in the snow and rain. She’s come to learn over time that Phillip is a man of gestures – big and small.

Rosalind is bouncing in the driver’s seat, “Come on, let’s go!”

Ambrosia double-checks the fastens and the belts and kisses the top of her daughter’s head before climbing into the passenger side.

It’s odd to be at a train station rather than an airplane terminal, but Ambrosia finds that she doesn’t mind. It’s less crowded. She leans up on her tip-toes to try and catch sight of her husband. He’ll tower over the crowds, no doubt, but she wants to be the one to see him first.

“Mama!” Diane has one fist on Rosie’s collar, clinging it as she’s held by her aunt, “Dada!”

Ambrosia sees him and it seems he was searching for her too – because their eyes lock across the platform.

Her heels click across the concrete as she runs to meet him halfway. Phillip leans down, her thin arms swooping over his shoulders and around his neck, and his arm, safe and solid, grips her around her waist.

There’s a fleeting moment when her feet no longer touch the ground as he lifts her, his smile bright, matching her own, and then he kisses her – it is filled with warmth, honeyed and sweet, and the sweep of his tongue across her bottom lip kick starts her heart.

“I missed you.” He says it against the lush shape of her mouth, stealing once last kiss before breaking away to greet his sister and his daughter. Her face is flushed and she takes his briefcase without any words being exchanged between them– so Phillip can hug Diane and listen to her shout “Dada!” in his ear at full volume.


	34. Phillip & Ambrosia IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anniversary ;; phillip x ambrosia (nsfw)

Could he honestly believe that a whole twelve months had passed since he signed his name next to her own? 

No. He couldn’t. Even with the periods of time he was away from her - it had felt as if this singular year had passed him by, quick and fleeting, and robbing his heart with it. 

Phillip spun the wedding band on his finger, watching the gold catch in the sunlight as he walked up the driveway and into their home. He had gotten her a gift - but what if she hadn’t purchased something for him? They never actually _discussed_ what they would do. 

There had been a mention of possible dinner plans but they had gotten lost in the shuffle of the work-week. 

“You’re home early.” Ambrosia rose from the couch to meet him and her delicate arms wrapped around his middle. 

“Yes, well….” He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the soft vanilla scent of her shampoo, “I missed you.”

She craned her neck up to look at him, crystal blue eyes narrowing, “How is it people find you scary again? You’re a softie.” There’s a soft curve to her lips as she smiles. 

“I believe…” He leaned down, arms scooping her up and eliciting a laugh from his small wife, “That _you_ bring it out of me.” 

“Ah…” Her head tilts, a stray lock of brilliant red hair falling across her forehead. “Have I ruined your reputation?” 

“Yes,” He kissed her jaw, “I used to be…” He kissed her chin, “Absolutely…” Her fingers card through his hair, “ _Terrifying_.”   
  
Phillip kissed Ambrosia, easily holding her upright - the damned woman was as light as a feather - and one hand sliding beneath her dress and up her back. She hardly gave him time to breathe, her mouth insistent and urgent against his, as Phillip carried her into the bedroom. 

Ambrosia let out another soft, wonderful laugh as he brought their bodies gently down onto the bed. She had grown used to the knot of his tie and the buttons of his shirt. Her thin, diligent fingers making quick work of them both, and her hands sliding forward to eagerly run her fingers across the curves and edges of his abdomen. 

He grabbed the zipped of her dress, pulling it down, and she shimmed the garment off her body. Phillip tossed it to the floor with his own shirt and tie. Ambrosia took the brief minute of their bodies being apart to admire him. She got lucky on the marriage lottery.

Then again, so did he.

His mouth covered the expanse of her chest and neck, kissing each birthmark and freckle, his hands buried in the thick, bright-as-sunshine curls of her hair. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she pushed her hips upwards, grinding against him.

“You’re _impatient_.” He grumbled, grazing his nose across the pulse point in her neck. 

“Oh?” She cocked an eyebrow and squirmed against him, reaching one hand down and pressing her palm against his slacks. Phillip bit back a groan. 

“Looks like I’m not the only one.” She smirked up at him.

“I am trying to take my time, Amb.” 

She shut him up with a kiss, her tongue prying open his lips and demanding his full attention. Phillip could lose himself in kissing her. It was a sensation still new to him - that he could be completely enchanted by the warmth and softness of her mouth and it would leave him breathless. Her hands fluttered over his skin, gripped his shoulders, and he smiled. He would not leave his wife waiting for very long.  
  
Phillip rolled onto his back, taking Ambrosia with him, and she quickly used the new position to her advantage. 

Her arms slipped from the bands of her bra, unclasping it, and she scooted backwards to unfasten his belt. This time, he didn’t protest, and when she climbed off of him to take off her own panties - she shot him a coy look. 

“Still want to take your time? Should I just leave these on….?” She asked, hair tumbling over her freckled shoulder, her fingertips hooked into the edges of her underwear as she challenged him.

His teeth were a flash of white as he laughed, “Come _here_.” He lunged for her, pulling her back into his arms and helping her rid the rest of her clothes. They lay side by side. His hand dipped between her legs and she gasped, clutching his shoulders a little more desperately. 

She buried her face into the crook of his neck, kissing his collarbone, with her hips moving methodically against his hand. 

“I love you,” He whispered into the shell of her ear and Ambrosia let a small whimper escape her lips. She would tease him for his tenderness, but it did not go unnoticed or unappreciated. His love was bright, unyielding, and resolute - it allowed no room for doubt. 

“ _Phillip_.” And he knew that tone, that edge in her voice, the shuddering of her breath and the hummingbird beat of her heart pressed against his skin. 

He kissed her temple and slowly pulled his hand away, but before he could move, Ambrosia was already throwing a leg over his waist. He leaned back into the pillows and settled his hands on her sides, marveling at the fact that he could fit one hand across her back and it would very-nearly cover it whole. She steadied herself with her hands on his chest and their eyes locked, briefly, before she lowered herself onto him. 

Her pace was a slow and deliberate one. Ambrosia’s back arched down, lips catching his, and muffling a soft moan. Their bodies had long grown used to one another. Two interlocked pieces of a puzzle. Red locks curtained over his face and tickled his skin. 

“I have something for you.” 

“What?”

He sat up, hooking an arm around her waist, and rolling her over onto her back. 

“Hey!” 

“Shhh…it’ll be easier if we’re on this side.” Phillip held her face between his hands, kissing her deeply, her thighs pressing tightly into his waist with each slow thrust. Her nails dragged down his back, settling near the end of his spine and digging in. 

He braced his hands on the sides of her, the bed shifting and thumping against the wall, and Phillip couldn’t stop himself from crying out - her body taut and writhing against him. Ambrosia bit her lip, pearly whites against the lush soft pink of her lower lip. 

Her body trembled, one of her hands between them and rubbing circles over her clit, and he was already _so_ close. Ambrosia gasped, head tossed back into the pillows, and Phillip lowered himself onto his elbows, allowing space for him to be able to kiss her neck and chest and shoulders and cheeks - every inch of skin available to him as she came and he followed soon after. 

He pressed his forehead into her shoulder and her fingertips ghosted across the damp skin of his back. His heartbeat was thunderous in his ears. His entire body was tingling, ears ringing, and he could use a long nap.

But he couldn’t do that - not yet.

Phillip took a breath and sat up. 

He reached over to his nightstand drawer, “Really? You have to show me _**now**_?!” 

As incredulous as her voice was, he knew there was some curiosity behind it. 

“Yes…” He kissed her. He held the small trinket in his hand and he dragged it across the flushed, freckled skin of her breasts. Ambrosia’s eyes fluttered open and looked up at him.

“Happy anniversary.” It was a [necklace](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fs-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com%2F736x%2Fda%2F20%2Ffb%2Fda20fb58574239747fd95137d8583614.jpg&t=MDhhNjJjYWVhM2U5YjZjY2YxMTNhMmNhY2EyMGJjNDM5ZWFmZWJmYSxPNnlKOXRiUw%3D%3D&b=t%3AKLaLdB0VGXDTyUf1RQpOrw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fmcallisterclan.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162189405524%2Fshe-is-half-my-own-soul-phillip-x-amb&m=1), a blue stone set in the middle that Phillip purchased because it reminded him of her eyes. 

She took it into her hands, peering at it, and a slight flutter of nerves grew in his stomach - what if she didn’t like it?

“What does the inscription say? It’s hard to read.”

“Dulcis Vita, Vita Tibi.”

“Latin?” 

“Good life; your life - roughly translated.” He paused, “Do you like it?” 

Ambrosia nodded, her lips pursing in that _way_ \- she’s touched, he can tell by her expression, and she’s trying not to get too emotional about it. She looks heavenwards, cleared her throat, and sniffed.

“I got you a watch.” 

He bumped his nose into hers, “Thank you.”

“You haven’t even seen it yet!” She clutched the necklace to her chest, blue eyes narrowing at him. God, he _loves_ her.

“My wife has excellent taste and I trust her judgement….I’m just glad we didn’t….forget the anniversary.”

“How could we? I marked it on the calendar in the kitchen.”

Phillip laughed, nuzzling his face into the side of her neck and tickling her with the light stubble across his jaw, “I’d like you to wear the necklace.”

“Hm? Now?” 

He flexed his hips, making Ambrosia gasp - again - “Yes, sweetheart. _Now_.” Phillip lightly grazed his teeth across her neck, kissing the spot below her ear, and then whispering - “I want to see how to looks when you’re riding me.”

“Phillip!” She’s flushed and smiling and now she’s kissing him and he’s….happy. He’s so goddamn _happy_. 


	35. (au) a hundred lifetimes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> soulmate au (kinda) pairing: ambrosia x phillip

**( 1715 )**

Phillip looked up from his pewter mug as the bonny red-haired lass refilled his cup. “Thank ye.”

She bowed her head a little and her muddied skirts swished as she made her way to the next group of rowdy gentlemen. Phillip drank alone. The brooch clasping his plaid showed the MacCallister Clan’s symbol - interlocking rings with a griffin, it’s claws raised. He sighed - his family was less than nothing now. Their land small, rough, his two brothers long dead against the fight against the English.

There was a sudden commotion as a man came barreling into the tavern, his guts nearly hanging out of his stomach, “Redcoats!” The tavern erupted to life as short swords were drawn and pistols readied with powder. Phillip rose, seeing the red haired woman plastered against the wall, her eyes wide and terrified. Most of the men left the tavern, but Phillip approached her first. “Lass, go find something to hide behind. Standing here will likely get you killed.”

He could see the whites of her eyes clearly, the ruddy color drained from her face, “C’mon…with me, now…” His hand was gentle as it took her wrist, “What’s your name?”

She swallowed, “Ambrosia.”

“That’s a pretty name.” Phillip brought her to cover, “Stay low, stay quiet, alright?” He went to stand and her thin fingers grabbed the linen of his shirt. He could see her shoulders trembling. Her clear blue eyes darted from his face to the door, gunshots echoing through the trees, birds cawing as they were disturbed from their perches.

“Please stay, please.” Ambrosia clutched him, “Please. If they get in….” Her voice trailed off.

Phillip could not say what compelled his next move, but his hand was on her cheek, guiding her face away from the door and allowing their eyes to lock. “I won’t leave you.” He meant the words with every bone in his body.

**( 1825 )**

“Miss. Reynolds, a pleasure.” The gentleman bowed to her as she was escorted into the large summer estate. “How was your visit to the city?”

“Very pleasant, Charles. Thank you. I found the most beautiful stockings! Your sister Phoebe will be delighted when she sees them.” Ambrosia replied, lightly fanning her face as the sun bore down on them as they ascended the steps.

Her bags and suitcases were brought upstairs by the footmen. The main entrance hall was finely decorated - the lush flowers on the tables and the beautiful oil painting hanging near the stairs. She greeted all her old friends with kisses brushing against her cheeks and knuckles.

And then a new face entered the room and Ambrosia felt a small flutter in the pit of her stomach.

“Ah, this is Phillip McAllister,” Charles introduced them, “His family is at the estate down by the river. Phoebe had the fine idea of joining our parties. This is his sister, Rosalind, and here is….”

Ambrosia had stopped listening - even if it was rude - because she was craning her neck up at him (could someone really be so tall?) and he was leaning down and she panicked for a moment, was he going to kiss her?! But no, his hand simply took hers and his lips ran across the knuckle of her ring finger.

Her eyes met his and the fluttered re-appeared. She caught the slight curve to his mouth, his blonde lashes sweeping across tanned cheekbones, as he gave her a look one that she could not quite place….but wanted to see more of.

**( 1942 )**

Her neck was sore, her fingers bloodied and cramping, the moans of suffering or near-death surrounded her. But, Ambrosia was focused on stitching the wound in front of her. She could tune everything else out.

You couldn’t save the world, but you could save the man in front of you if you worked quickly enough.

“Come on, now, you’re not allowed to die.” Ambrosia chastised him and she felt the slow rattle of what might have been a laugh. The fact that the officer was even still conscious was impressive.

She cleaned the wound with water and peered over at his face. “Still with me?”

His eyes fluttered open and met hers, “Of course.”

Ambrosia felt relief and a smile graced her features - the first one in the past few hours. “Good. Keep it that way, solider.”

“You’re….” He took a slow breath, talking hurt his lungs, “Bossy.”

“And you’re alive because of me.” Ambrosia snapped back, brushing his hair from his forehead, “Keep it that way, I must go and check on the others.”

“Mhm - of course, sweetheart.”

**( the end )**

My soul recognizes yours. It has followed you through a hundred lifetimes, a thousand stars, it has passed you in crowded streets and called out your name and sometimes…when we are very lucky…we get the timing right.


	36. (au) Sunflowers on your grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> au ; everyone is dead ( alt title: i will put sunflowers on your grave )

The first thing Matthew does with his tax return money is buy a motorcycle. Barbara rolls her eyes, affectionate, laughing, and tells him to wear a helmet. Matthew takes Rosie with him on his first ride. They go all the way to New Jersey. She laughs the entire time.

They go to the beach. Rosie runs along the shore, dipping bare feet into cold waters, and dragging her twin along with her. Her dark mane of hair is tangled around her face. Matthew grins and kicks sand at her. She calls him an ‘ _asshole_ ’.

Rosie is home alone when she gets the phone call. She’s folding bed sheets when her spine goes cold and her fingers numb. There’s a tilting, spinning, _terrifying_ moment when she feels like she might vomit.

She does end up vomiting. After identifying the body.

Rosie feels like she’s missing a limb. She reaches for her phone to call her twin brother and ends up sobbing on the kitchen floor. She’s felt heartbreak, before. This is _**worse**_. 

* * *

Phillip kisses his wife and the top of his daughter’s head. The announcer calls for boarding and he leaves the airport. Sunlight glints off his wedding ring. Ambrosia waits until she knows he’s the plane before she herds their children back to the car. 

The sand congeals with fresh blood and his breath rattles when he inhales. Phillip pushes his squad to safety with the static of the radio in his ear. The Evac is fifteen minutes out. He rolls onto his back, searching the pockets of his uniform, until he finds it.

He turns his head, coughs, and blood fills his mouth. The blue, blue sky, is watching him. Phillip lifts his arm to see the object. It’s small. A shard of green sea-glass that his oldest son, Junior, found. He rubs it between two bloodied fingers. _‘It’s for good luck, Dad. So when you’re in the desert, you can always have a piece of the ocean with you’._

When they lift his body onto the helicopter, the memento slips between his fingers, and falls into the sand. 

* * *

John McAllister should not have to bury his children. The brutal unfairness of the world crushes his chest. A company of planes flies overhead and Barbara weeps, quietly, beside him. He reaches for her and holds her hand.

* * *

Rosie doesn’t tell anyone when she finds out. She closes up her business, claiming a need to travel before she settles down, and she secretly meets with a lawyer. 

She’s poked, prodded, blood drawn, and given an _estimate_. She stands in her bathroom and lifts the scissors. Inky black tresses pile around her bare feet. 

She first goes to New York and visits Wesley. He’s surprised, but glad to see her. They don’t talk about Phillip or Matthew. Rosie takes Washington for walks and goes to all the tourist spots with him. 

Her next stop is Boston. She visits her grandmother. She eats pie made from scratch and listens to the stories, again and again, as she sits on the porch with her. Her grandmother gives her a knitted shawl before she leaves. Rosie wears it on the plane.

Japan is _confusing_. But, she manages. Ambrosia invites her in, makes tea, and let’s Rosie hold the baby (who is not much of a baby at all, anymore).   
  
James and Junior take her to see the cherry blossom trees in Osaka. Junior asks her lots of questions about Phillip. The kind of questions that _hurt_. Rosie cries through most of them. _‘He was stronger than any of us.’_ She says, cupping her palms together to hold the blossoms as they fall, tears slipping down her cheeks, _‘He always looked out for us. He taught me how to protect myself. He loved you guys…so much….’_  
  
Junior pushes his glasses up on his nose. _‘Loving someone makes them immortal. As long as you think of them, they can’t die. Not truly.’_

Rosie reaches out and ruffles his hair, russet and smooth, like silk. 

She travels to Hawaii and swims in the ocean. She floats there, letting the waves push and pull her body, and she stares up at the blue, blue sky and it stares back.

* * *

Wesley rubs his lower back, the pain in his hips flaring up, as he mounts the slow incline. Stony faces watch him pass. He reaches the summit and lets out a slow, heavy sigh. 

_Matthew John McAllister : Beloved Son, Never Forgotten_  
_Phillip Harold McAllister: Proud Father to Diane, Phillip Jr and James , Loving Husband of Ambrosia_  
_Rosalind Dove McAllister: The world is a far lesser place without you._  
_Barbara and John McAllister: To know them was to love them._  
  
Wesley laid the sunflowers down on the family plot. He carefully, and slowly, crouches down and sits in the damp grass.   
  
And he can see Matthew’s crooked grin, he can see Rosie’s sparkling green eyes, he can see Phillip’s hulking shoulders and hear his loud laugh, rare as it was. A light breeze ruffles the silver hair on top of his head.   
  
The sunflowers seek the sun’s rays, but they too - in time - will wither. 


End file.
